


May I Long Experience the Joy of Healing

by Penstrokes_and_Daydreams



Series: Stranger Missions [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Doctor Reader - Freeform, F/M, Fix It, Just assume everyone will show up, Medical History, Slow Burn, Story will have a happy and a canon end, historical fiction - Freeform, romantic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:08:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 33,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25255159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penstrokes_and_Daydreams/pseuds/Penstrokes_and_Daydreams
Summary: In which you, intrepid reader, are a young doctor heading out into the frontier until trouble hits. Of course, it hits in the form of a handsome outlaw and a wild adventure, so what's to regret?This story will follow through the game and provide both canon and fix-it chapters, for whichever your heart desires.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Female Reader, Arthur Morgan/Reader
Series: Stranger Missions [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1829656
Comments: 82
Kudos: 162





	1. First Do No Harm- Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, there were women doctors in America by the start of RDR2. Dr Elizabeth Blackwell began her practice in 1849; Dr Lydia Fowler in 1850; and by 1899 the Blackwell sisters had trained 364 female doctors from their school in New York. 
> 
> Mission Description: There seems to be a commotion at the doctor's office in Valentine...

“You thick-headed, woefully inept, incompetent piece of-“

The sheriff jerks harder on your arm, pulling you from the sidewalk into the filth of the street and cutting off your last insult. You yank your arm away and fix the lawman with a glare. Of course this narrow-minded little blowhard took his side. With a look of pity he probably reserves for women and invalids, the sheriff sighs. You consider whether or not a jail cell would be worth kicking him right between the legs. On the one hand, it won’t help you establish your image as a professional, on the other, you very much would like to see him suffer.

“The man’s got a right to refuse service, miss.”

“And I have a license to practice!”

“But you don’t have to do it here. I’m sure the good doctor just feels threatened by you is all.”

The kick might not be worth it, but you do want to draw a line, “Don’t ever patronize me again, sir.”  
He gives you another look, shakes his head like he’s dealing with a headstrong child, and heads off. Fuming, you step back onto the plank sidewalk and head the opposite direction. Maybe you’ll go stare at the lambs in the market until you calm down. You only get a few steps till you come face-to-chest with a solid wall of cowboy. He holds up his hands before you can snap at him and you realize he must have heard the whole conversation a moment before. You resist the urge to rub your now sore nose in front of him.

“I’m not crazy, mister.”

“I ain’t said a word, miss.”

“It’s doctor, actually. I’m a medical doctor. Not that anybody here is willing to let me ply my trade.”

“I saw that tiff with the sheriff. You alright?”

The calm, easy cadence of his voice defuses you a little, even if you’re pretty sure he’s only doing it in case you decide to tear him a new one. It’s a wise decision, probably. His kindness is welcome enough, too, in the face of the less than friendly inhabitants of Valentine. For a place with so many seasonal workers, they get very touchy about strangers.

“Yeah, thank you. The doctor here refuses to sell supplies to me, even though I’ve promised not to set up a practice in his town.”

“He say why?”

“He believes the fairer sex lacks the constitution for medicine. I’d love to get my hands on him and show him a thing or two about my constitution.”

The man stares down at your clenched fist but wisely doesn’t comment. Usually you aren’t so hotheaded, but the whole situation is grating on your very last nerves. Fortunately he doesn’t seem the type to mind the threat of a fight. You’d been in town a while, delayed as you were, and you’d seen him around but don’t really recognize him. He looks like he might be one of the seasonal workers the area ranches pulled in for auction season. An idea pops into your head that maybe he’d be game for a different type of job too. And you’ve tried everything else, so why not give a con a go?

“Can I buy you dinner?”

The words fly out of your mouth. Of all the reactions you expect, the colour that rises instantly to his cheeks and the way his eyes go wide wasn’t one. He looks flustered and it is endearing. Now that you think about it, he is a fine looking man: beautiful eyes, all green and blue in a mix, a handsome face, broad shoulders, strong hands and- well, Momma had always said that what made a lady wasn’t what she thought but what she said, and you aren’t planning to say it outloud- a waist that looked perfect for having a woman’s legs around it.

“For business purposes, I promise. I have an idea, and whether you agree to my pitch or not, food is food.”

He shakes his head like he’s trying to clear thoughts away and shrugs, “That’s true enough. Lead the way, doctor.”

For what you’re scheming, the smaller saloon on the far side of town would lower your chances of being seen together, but they only serve oatmeal and the thought of it turns your stomach. Besides, everyone in Smithfields or whatever it’s called is always half a glass shy of blackout drunk, so you doubt anyone there other than the barber will remember you at all. Everything already feels like it’s coming together and a little flutter of excitement settles in your stomach. You, a certified do-gooder, are going to ask this poor man to purger himself, and pay him to do it.  
Even at midday there’s a bit of bustle to the saloon beyond a simple beer and lunch. You try to ignore the handful of suspicious looks shot your way. Or maybe they’re shot your companion’s way, considering he seems to be making a great effort to hide his face with his hat. Maybe there was a fight? There always seems to be a fight in this town. There’s very little else to do you, and even you yourself have been tempted to do violence of late. Maybe it’s a disease from the sheep. Maybe it’s the recession.

Either way, you order two plates of beef stew and sit down across from your stranger at what you think is a reasonably clean table. The plates are delivered and you hesitate for a moment over whether or not you should eat or talk, but he’s digging in and looking at you expectantly so you decide to dive right in.

“If you’re willing to tell the doctor that you’re ordering first aid supplies for the ranch you work for and buy the items off the list I give you, I’ll pay you. If you need medical care for anything, I’m willing to do that as well, free of charge.”

It comes out quickly, and probably a bit too loud, but it’s to the point and you're kind of proud of yourself for thinking it up. Your new potential business partner nods as he chews.

“Alright, but how about this: I buy your supplies, you treat a couple of friends of mine instead of me.”

“How many friends?”

“Two: a man I know what got attacked by animals who’s healin’ up, but probably needs a look over, and his boy, who got sick this winter.”

That all sounds very suspicious to you: if somebody got gored or trampled on a ranch, surely they’d have brought him to the doctor? Why was there a child involved? What was stopping them from going to the doctor now, since he had a whole surgery set up? What you’re doing is dishonest, certainly, but it doesn’t put anyone at risk. These conditions, though, they sounded like wading into something much more complicated than pulling one over on a misogynist doctor. As if he can read your mind, the man leans forward and you notice that for all his easy-going tone earlier, he suddenly sounds like death itself: cold, hard, and final.

“I’m sure I don’t need to remind someone as dedicated to their profession as you of doctor-patient privilege?”

“I-” Words don’t seem to want to come out of your mouth as he stares you down. You don’t like how nervous you’re getting; he’s not the first person to ever threaten you, but he is the first person to make you feel completely out of your depth dealing with it.

“I’ll get your goods, doctor, and you’ll give your services, and we’ll all be on our merry ways.”

“Treating two patients will be more expensive than one and,” You force yourself to keep eye contact with him against all better reason, “It’ll have to come out of what I pay you.”

That stormy expression wavers and the man finally sits back, chuckling, “I think I might get to like you, doc. What exactly are you planning on paying me?”

It occurs to you then, halfway through a hunk of potato you’d speared out of sheer relief at remaining alive, that you have no idea what a fair price would be, and you have no intention of letting him set it. It wasn’t a large task, and posed no risk other than a few firm words from the sheriff, you suppose. But he has no stake at all in helping you other than the money. You weigh it out and do some calculations based on what you have handy.

“Five dollars, subject to change if either of your friends have any severe complications. There are things that are much more difficult to get than bandages.”

He shrugs again, a movement that looks half like he’s loosening his shoulders for a fight himself, “Ten dollars, no change, and I’ll get you a few vials of morphine too.”

“Where would you- No, I don’t want to know.” New Hanover and a number of neighboring states have passed recent laws restricting sale of the drug and you’ve written off all hope of getting any for quite some time. You have, of course, kept up on medical journals rife with accusations against its overuse, but for surgeries there was simply nothing like it. The offer was remarkably tempting, and you wonder again how exactly you’ve fallen so far into temptation today: first you wanted to assault an officer of the law, now you’re conning another doctor, and the man helping you- who you had assumed innocent- was trying to sell you illegal morphine.

“Seven dollars, no change and the morphine.”

“Deal. Where’s the list?”

You dig briefly through your chatelaine bag for the scrap of paper you’d written everything down on, as well as enough money to cover all the purchases. Before you’d let slip your real role in the medical world, that quack in the surgery had been happy to sell to you, convinced you were a nurse working for a man; you did remember the total he’d given before it all went the way of no return.

"Here. This should cover everything. I’ll wait for you at the hotel, alright?”

“Sounds good to me, ma’am.”

He stands, tips his hat to you, and walks away, leaving you sitting at the dirty table, staring at your stew. The whole affair is making you question your ethics: certainly when you moved West you knew things would be different, and that you were prepared to sacrifice nicities to help others. You suppose you just didn’t expect it like this or so soon. You pick at your stew until you feel you’ve eaten a justifiable amount, then wander next door to the general store. No matter the suspicious nature of the circumstances, you will be seeing a child later, after all, and you try to never visit children without the offering of candy.

After you have a bag in hand there’s nothing left but to head up to your room in the hotel for your kit and wait. Hopefully this will be smooth sailing, but there’s this little voice nagging you about it all, like you’re stepping into deep water and will either sink or swim. Well, you suppose, you’ve always had an excellent backstroke.


	2. First Do No Harm- Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you are engaged in a bargain, encounter a number of people, and practice medicine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An important note before we begin: I am not a doctor, medical professional, medical historian, etc. This is a fictional work for fun, and nothing in it should be used to diagnose or treat you or anyone else! That said, I will try to be as accurate as possible within the bounds of the time period in terms of treatments and if necessary will provide more accurate information in the Boring Bit at the Bottom of the chapter. I'm playing fast and loose with medicine, the game's timeline, the game's geography, and more. But please, seek licensed medical care if it's needed, don't consult this fic.
> 
> Chapter warnings for: needles, stitches, medical discussion, and eye trauma.  
> This chapter assumes the gang was in Colter a few months, because that is how seasons and snow work...

It doesn’t take long for Arthur to come back, all your supplies in a milk crate in his arms. As soon as you see him through the window you let out a breath you never realised you were holding. Your little con was successful, he didn’t steal all your money, and you were stocked up and ready to make the call for where to go next. Other than to treat his ‘friends,’ of course. Truth be told, you were even kind of looking forward to it. It was so completely different than anything you were used to and you were more than a bit curious.

When he gets close enough you rush to throw the door open, grinning like a fool. He smiles himself when he sees you.

“It worked.”

“It worked! Oh, I could kiss you!”

That same flush came back to his cheeks, and if you were honest you had guessed that would be his response in the half-second it took for you to realize what you were saying. It was a little much but you couldn’t bring yourself to regret it, riding the high of finally having what you needed to do your job. You tugged him back to your rented room and gestured for him to sit the crate down and immediately started cataloging bottles and boxes and bandages. There was more than you expected so you turned to your partner in crime with confusion on your face.

“He must have been overchargin’ you before, so I asked him what else he’d recommend I grab. I also nicked these for ya.”

He offered you a few small bottles from his jacket pocket. You turned them over in your hands, studying the labels: smallpox, diphtheria… cholera, typhoid. They were vaccine vials- you recognized the design-, but the last two were wholly unexpected. You’d heard rumours before you went West that there may have been a breakthrough or two, but this was wholly unexpected. You rolled the little bottles over in your hand, listening to them clink together. They were so precious, so rare and powerful, and they were here in your hand.

“How did he get these?”

You weren’t aware your voice was loud enough to hear until he answered: “Found ‘em in a package in a stack of his mail. I tossed the box, but I think it said they were from a feller in Chicago?”

“Chicago,” You repeated. “These are worth a fortune.”

“Yeah?” 

You leaned away from him and his grin and his playful reach, shielding the vials. He chuckled. The sound was dark and rich and it pulled your smile right back out.

“I ain’t takin’ ‘em back. I wouldn’t know how to sell ‘em anyway.”

“A desperate doctor would be your best bet but any of us would likely do. Hopefully if you ever are selling illicit vaccines you’ll remember yours truly first.”

“Oh, shoah.”

You pulled your bag over and flicked it open, pushing aside the case that held your surgical tools, arranging or exchanging what you had and what you needed. 

“What all have you got in there? Leeches?”

“Oh, no, they’re too much upkeep.”

You knew he was probably trying to hide it, but there was a shudder go through him at the honest clip of your voice. It was a serious answer; leeches could be difficult to manage on the go. The cases for them were heavy and if one slipped out it was likely lost forever. With a considering hum you pulled your torniquits out and packed more bandages in.

“Your friend, are you worried about infection or…”

“Well I reckon his stitches outta come out, for one.”

“You didn’t use catgut?”

Arthur shrugged, “Used what we had. Anyway, he’s had ‘em a coupla months and his face ain’t gettin’ prettier.”

Fortunately you were sure you had all you’d need and your vaccine bottles secured, because you snapped your bag shut then.

“Are you all insane?! Those should have come out ages ago! Take me to him, now.”

He blinked slowly like he wasn’t expecting any real fevor for his work on your part. Rolling your eyes, you pushed past him out the door to the room. He followed, eyeing you as you locked up.

“You seem awful eager.”

“Eager to prevent an infection. You can’t exactly amputate a person’s face, sir.”

He grins a crooked grin at you, “Might could with Marston; wouldn’t nobody notice a difference.”

You give him an icy look as you walk out the front of the hotel and he seems suitably chastened. He leads you down to the area around the butcher, where a horse you assume is his stands; he pulls himself into the saddle with a practiced ease and extends his hand. His grip is firm but considerate as he hauls you up behind him. You balance your back on the mare’s rump and wrap your free arm around his chest. It’s a little precarious and you won’t be able to manage it at much more than a trot. 

“You wanna ride stride instead?”

You consider the offer and weigh comfort against the amount of petticoat you’d be flashing to the townspeople.

“After we get out a little ways. I’d like to save some small measure of my reputation, sir.”

He grunted and spurred the horse gently. She was a pretty creature, tall and well groomed, and noticeably unbranded. You decide not to ask about that. A few miles out from Valentine he pulls in the reins and slides down to the ground. You capitalize on the chance to change positions, hauling limbs and skirts into something more inclined to survive the trip. 

“I’m gonna have to blindfold you from here.”

“Excuse me?”

He sets to pulling a bandana out of his pocket, “I can’t let you see how to get in and out of our camp, so I’m gonna have to blindfold you.”

“I don’t suppose swearing silence will change your mind?”

He does another one of his half shrugs, as if he’s afraid to shift too much of his body at once, “Sorry. You been real good about everything so far, but it’s the rules.”

There is absolutely nothing about the idea of being blinded that appeals to you, especially not the part that involves horseback riding. Perhaps the inclusion of a strange man who steals like it’s second nature should concern you more, but you suspect that if he’d been inclined towards carnal violence that there’d have been simpler ploys and his politeness would have run out by now. You were, after all, very recently alone in your room with this man. Propriety, your teacher had once told you, matters very little when you are a doctor; nothing is more important than the life of a patient.

“I’m going to assume that if I make a fuss you’ll do it anyway.”

Arthur nodded, but at least looked a little apologetic. You suspect he may be overplaying it, using those pretty eyes of his to look more innocent than he is. Now that you think about it, you can imagine it as an old tactic that probably works far, far more often than it should.

“Fine, but you’re holding my bag.”

“Sounds fair enough.”

Against the resistance of everything in you, you lean down and let him tie the bandana over your eyes. He does at least ask if you’re alright and warns you when he moves to mount up. This time, without the bag to deal with and since you’re facing forward, you have both arms free to wrap around him. It’s a difficult position because you aren’t certain of your ability to stay seated blind, on a strange horse, through rocky territory, but you also aren’t certain how Arthur will feel about you clinging to him like a frightened child. When you put your arms around him you could feel the hard-won muscle of a working man in how broad and solid his chest is. His heart beats away near your right hand and with your eyes covered it seems louder.

“Come on, Penelope,” He mutters, and you move faster than expected.

You tighten your grip on him at the strange sensation of the landscape around you flying past. He smells like horses and leather, oil, gunpowder and sweat; it’s terrible, really, but not surprising, and if you didn’t feel like you’d fall to your death if you eased up, you’d never be so close. When branches start catching your sleeves and whipping near your head you hide your face in his shoulder. It doesn’t take long past that for Penelope’s pace to slow back to a walk. Someone yells out a warning from up ahead and Arthur replies. 

“Welcome back!”

When the horse stops you’re quick to drop your hold and tug off your blindfold. You blink a few times; even dappled through the trees right over the hitching post, the afternoon light is bright. Your bag is sitting on the ground, and you relax a little at the sight of it safe. Arthur holds out a hand and you take it. In a sudden movement you don’t quite expect he sits his other hand on your waist and half-pulls, half-guides you down. The whole action seems effortless to him and your mouth goes dry for some reason you can’t quite place.

When you turn around there’s something of a crowd of people staring at you. Any idea that you had been helped out by a cryptic rancher was of course long gone, but you’d still expected something that made a bit more sense than whatever it was you were looking at. You hadn’t seen such a mix of kinds of people since you’d left the East. All of them were watching you like you were a dangerous beast waiting to strike. It reminded you of your observed surgeries in training, but then you knew what everyone wanted and exactly what to say. After a moment that felt much longer than it surely was, a lean, older man nodded at her.

“Don’t be rude, Arthur: introduce your guest.”

“She’s a doctor. I did her a favour and she agreed to take a look at John and Jack without chargin’ us nothin’.”

You held out a hand and smiled, giving your name and that of your medical school. He shook your offered hand and looked you over.

“Doctors sure are prettier now than they were when I was a boy. The name’s Hosea, miss.”

“A pleasure.”

“The pleasure is surely ours,” Says another man, dark haired and sharp eyed. The sensation of being caught up in something creeps up your spine, and the threat that you may not be allowed to treat who you were asked- John and Jack, he’d said- pressed heavy into your thoughts. He has a look on his face you’ve only seen in hospital wards, where someone is making the decision who will die and who will be treated, despite the warm tone of his words.

“If someone here needs medical care, I need to see them. I’d be happy to speak afterwards.”

Arthur gestures for you to follow him and leads you through part of the crowd, grabbing someone by the arm as he goes. He leads you to a tent set up under a wagon and shoves the man he was dragging down.

“John, doc; doc, John. Now I’m gonna go deal with this.”

John glares at you for a minute while you take in the state of him. His stitches are indeed still in, and there’s some redness and swelling, but it doesn’t look nearly as bad as you’d imagined. You sit your bag down and kneel in front of him.

“How have you been feeling?”

“It itches and hurts like a bitch.”

“Any fevers, chills, or stiffness in your muscles?”

“No.”

“Good. I’m going to touch your face, but I’m not going to remove any stitches yet.”

He grumbles something under his breath and you pretend not to hear it. The skin under your hands is rough, but no warmer than the surrounding flesh: a good sign. It’s not particularly clean either, though, so you’ll have to take care of that before anything else.

“You’ll have some nasty scars, that’s for certain.” You trace the sutures up; there are shallow but significant scars across his nose and up, but no stitches there. The claw marks- whatever got to him was certainly not a bull- should have gone right over his eye, “Have you had any problems with your vision?”

He doesn’t answer, just scowls, but he doesn’t fight you either when you hold his eye open and lean away from the light. It’s difficult to see anything and you’re close to giving up when he pulls away and nods.

“Things are fuzzy and there are spots where I cain’t see.”

“Is it painful?”

He shrugs, “Can you do anything for it?”

“Some of it may lessen over time, but I’m sorry. There’s nothing anyone can do for that kind of damage.”

“Figured. You can’t tell anybody, though. We’ve got enough mouths to feed without them tellin’ me I can’t work with a bum eye.”

“I can’t tell anyone anything you don’t give me permission for. You need to wash your face before I finish up: soap and water, warm is better.” When he makes a face you resist the urge to roll your eyes, 

“It’s that or I pour whiskey on it.”

“Just like a woman to go wastin’ good whiskey,” He accuses, but he slinks off all the same.

You use the time to get your own tools ready. They’re clean in the bag: scissors, tweezers, bandage, gauze, needle and thread in case you’ve misjudged anything, and a health tonic to speed up healing and hopefully fight off infection.You’re debating how much of the bottle to give him when Arthur comes back, bringing the man in the hat from earlier with him.

“Here’s the morphine I promised. Figured I’d get it to you now, just in case.”

“Thank you, but I don’t think he’ll need it. It’s much better than I feared.”

The other man clears his throat and you work to keep the smile you’d given Arthur on your face, “I don’t believe we shared introductions earlier, doctor: I’m Dutch.”

You repeat your name even though you’re sure he knew by now.

“I want to apologise for everything involved in your arrival. As you may have guessed, we’re Travellers, and we just have no desire to be run out of another unwelcoming town. I’m sure you understand how difficult some folk can be.”

“Of course.” You aren’t sure you believe him, not when there’s a bit of relief in his expression, but you aren’t going to ask any questions, “Your friend here was very helpful, I’m happy to return the favor.”

“Yes, he is very handy to have around,” His playful tone and the look he gives Arthur eases your concern a little; you can tell something is afoot, but it doesn’t seem like you’re in any real danger. “What brings you out this way, if I may ask?”

“Well, there’s a lot of territory without doctors, and a lot of places where there’s only one, and he can turn you away for just about anything. I try to keep my costs low for people who need it, so that more people can see me, and to travel around to make it easier for people living beyond civilization.”

“That is a noble idea, miss, a very noble idea.” Something in his demeanor seems to shift then, like he’s settling into something, “I’ve long believed myself that greed is a disease as much as anything that makes a man’s body sick. Greed makes a man’s soul sick, and it has taken its root in many places. It’s that greed that makes those doctors turn away the ill and the dying, makes them care more about money than-”

Dutch pauses when John comes back, hair dripping. There’s a woman behind him, scowling; she looks young, but fierce. He looks back at her every so often with a sour expression, like they’ve fought. Just like that you have an audience again, notwithstanding the less than subtle one that hangs just in hearing range and always seems busy when you turn to look. John sits back down on the cot like a man going to a hanging.

“Is he gonna be okay?”

“Not if you pester her while she’s got sharp objects near my face, Abigail.”

“Excuse me for giving a damn about you!”

“Since when have you-”

“Abigail I think the doctor here was going to have a look at Jack as well, why don’t we go find him? We wouldn’t want him to wander over here and see this, would we?”

With Dutch and Abigail gone John seems to relax a little, resigning himself to whatever fate he was imagining. Arthur stays, standing just in the corner of your vision. Whoever all these people are, they certainly don’t enjoy much privacy.

“I drank while I was gone. That okay?”

“It’s fine. Now, I’m going to need you to hold still. If you feel strong pain or a tearing sensation, let me know.”

The sutures were interrupted, and too few for the length of the cut, so you don’t think it will take too long; John twitches when you move, but stays put better than some patients you’ve had. The process is simple enough: lift the knot, cut under it, pull it out the opposite direction of the closure. It’s easy to get into a pattern with the repetitive motions and John’s carefully controlled breathing. When the last suture is out you’re tasked with covering everything. You settle for having him lay down, packing the gauze down with gravity holding it in place, and wrapping the bandages from behind his head. It isn’t as good as it would be on an arm or leg, but you’ve made it work.

“You’ve made it through,” You tell him as you pass him the health tonic. He knocks back a swallow like it’s something more exciting than medication and passes it back, so you take it as a sign that should be the dosage. You’re two-thirds of the way done with the whole affair.

“Next patient?”

John takes the opportunity to duck out, promising to send Jack your way. You wrap the tools you used with him in a towel to boil later and change them out for the kinds of things you’ll need for examining a child. Arthur stays, sitting against the barrel by the tentpost, writing. There’s something gratifying about it: the freedom to work without judgement or criticism, but not alone. Or he may be there to make sure you don’t run off to bring the law down, as if you could with a sheriff that makes you want to violate the sacred oaths of your profession and who likely wouldn’t believe you anyway.

“Doctor?”

It’s Abigail again, but instead of furious she looks afraid. The little boy in front of her barely comes to her hip and you guess the best way to assuage her fear is to go through him. You hold out a hand.

“Hello, are you Mr Jack?”

“No mister, ma’am, just Jack.”

“And how old are you, just Jack?”

He holds up four fingers and you act surprised. He lets you pull him a few steps forward to sit on the cot. Abigail hovers, so you move to the side a little so she can see everything you do.

“And you were sick this winter?”

“Uh huh. It was real cold but I felt all hot and coughed a lot. I feel better now.”

“That’s good! Have you ever been to a doctor?”

“Nope.”

You had guessed as much, so when you pull out your stethoscope you take just a moment to explain to him what it is before you check his heart and lungs. You’re careful to announce that all seems well before moving on. By the time you’ve run through everything a basic exam would cover you’re content that he’s a perfectly healthy little boy who just had a bout of pneumonia.

“Jack, have you ever had a shot?”

His eyes go wide and he shakes his head, “I can’t shoot guns until I’m older, Momma says.”

You decide to try his mother, “Has he gotten a smallpox vaccine?”

“No.”

“I can give him one today, and in a few days I can vaccinate him against a couple of other things too, like diphtheria and typhoid. With luck, that means he won’t ever catch them.”

“You can’t give them all to him at once?”

“No, they may make him a little sick, so it’s best to space them out.”

“Could you give them to anybody?”

“Yes, but that wasn’t...” You look to Arthur, who’s put down his book, “It wasn’t what we agreed to.”

They could just refuse to let you go, or take the vials back; someone in the camp had morphine, which means they knew their way around a needle.

“You said you wanted to help people what couldn’t see a doctor.”

He had you there. It was obvious that the camp was meant to be hidden and individuals only left for certain businesses. They did, you suppose, count.

“Fine, but it will be three dollars a person. That’s much less than anyone else would ask.” It is, in fact, less than you want to ask, but the reminder of the risk Arthur took to get the vaccines at all makes you feel guilty about asking more.

“But you’ll do Jack for free?”

“Of course. I even have candy for him if he’s very brave.”

That one statement seems to have won him over so completely that he doesn’t get nervous even when he sees your needle. For distraction’s sake you give him a few pieces right before you inject him. He doesn’t cry, but he does whimper, and he runs to the comfort of his mother’s skirts as soon as you’re done. No matter where you go or who you see, some things always remain the same.

It’s nightfall by the time you return to your hotel with plans to return in three days and Arthur’s apology for the questions and speeches that delayed you.

“He usually gets to the part about the American dream sooner, but I think you gave him a new angle to talk about.” The reminder of Dutch’s monologue, picked up perfectly from where he had left, makes you laugh.

“I shudder to think what the man could do with a typewriter.”

You’ve paid him already and sworn your silence, but he lingers at the door to the hotel for a moment.

“Thank you,” He finally says, “For bein’ so nice to everyone.”

“They were kind enough to me.” And they had been, asking you about what you could treat and where you had come from. “You’re good people.”

“I wouldn’t say that if I were you, doc. Not about all of us, least of all me.”

“From the man who chose to get help for his friends over more money? Most of all you. Goodnight, Arthur.”

“G’night, ma’am.”

The walk up to your room is short, and you make it without really realising it. When you open the door, the reflection in your mirrors shows you smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How on earth did the Van der Lindes last so long, none of the men can lie and they tell their names to everybody. The last part I tried, at least, to correct. Our poor, poor main character has no clue who anyone is or what they're lying to her about. It's probably a very good thing for everyone that Kieran is off that tree, no?  
> Cholera and Typhoid vaccines were developed in the very late 1800's, both before the game begins, but they wouldn't have been common. I was excited to learn there was a cholera vaccine, because this meant I could use this chapter as an explanation as to why nobody in the first game caught it at any point! I'm pretty sure modern vaccine schedules work the way they do to watch for allergic reactions, but I doubt that was big on anybody's radar in 1899.  
> Catgut is a dissolving thread for sutures that was a fairly cutting edge technology, but widely used. John does have interrupted stitches, which means that each knot is made individually. They are indeed way too far apart and in way too long; they should have come out about a week after they went in.  
> The idea that John has partial or complete blindness in his left eye is a popular fan theory and I liked it. I have a friend who has a blindspot from getting hit in the eye, I can only imagine what wolf claws would do.   
> Flashing a little petticoat was fashionable for the day, flashing too much? Scandalous. I hope you enjoyed this chapter :)


	3. What Does a Doctor a Day Keep Away?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you meet another new character and encounter a fork in the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I promised a fix it and "canon" ending in the tags, and as it stands, there are 4 versions of endings: one where Arthur lives but several bad things still happen; one with the "canon" ending; and two bonuses, one that's a complete fix it that derails the game and one bonus ending. This chapter marks the beginning of the differences between the first two endings. If you're reading this chapter for the Arthur lives, read the whole thing, if not, skip the part marked off by the ***** and the chapter will read as complete without any fix its.
> 
> Content warnings: nothing graphic today, but mentions of broken bones, pulled teeth, and general violence.

Against your better judgement- to say nothing of your sense of taste- you like Sean. The plucky Irishman makes you laugh, and he somehow seems so incredibly young.

“Yeah, an’ I’m glad these morons runnin’ about finally got sense enough to fetch a real doctor. None of this hopin’ for the best nonsense! You’re alright, missy!”

You’d come out to the camp on a special request to see to him after he’d been rescued from something they wouldn’t tell you about. It didn’t seem to have occurred to them that the injuries would tell you the story. He’s missing a couple of teeth, underweight, and has a few broken bones- fortunately the only serious one is his clavicle, the rest are fingers and toes, and though you’d been worried about his ankle at first, you’re now almost certain it’s just turned and not snapped. It’s obvious he was beaten, and the marks on his wrist say he was cuffed. He told you kidnapped, you suspect ‘arrested’ is a more accurate term; everyone is very careful not to detail where he came from and how they got him back. At the rate he’s been going even through the pain of having things reset, restored, and occasionally stitched up, you imagine your concern would better serve his jailor than him.

“Say, you examine everything I ask? Cause if you’re interested I got something you could see to i-”

“Arthur’s the one who brought her around.”

Charles- you know more names now, having come around fairly regularly to vaccinate and treat hunting injuries and the losers of particularly nasty rounds of five finger fillet- has hovered by the entire time you’ve been setting Sean’s arm in a sling and checking for infections. He looks like he wants to walk away and never come back. You don’t blame him; he’s not a man for idle chatter, which you can appreciate, and he’s even less a man for boasting. You like him too, though in a very distinct way from your feelings about Sean, which seem to resemble those one might harbor for a particularly loud and foolish puppy. Sometimes it’s nice not to feel so impersonal, like most of your appointments. It gets lonely out here sometimes.

The comment about Arthur shuts him up quick. It seems like any time anybody gets fresh or gets aggressive, whether physically present or not, he comes to your rescue. You aren’t sure if you’re viewed more as pet or property and frankly you’re afraid to find out. By and large you’re considered a helpful outsider, an accessory to the tight-knit group, so as long as somebody is serving as a buffer, you’re content. The money you’ve been making vaccinating and patching up this group has more than enough to make up for any inconvenience; you’ve been able to help out a few families around Valentine. 

You give Charles a quick nod of thanks.

“You should work on your lines, sir, I’ve heard that more times than I can count.”

“Aye, well, they aren’t all winners. So, am I fit to fight again?”

You snort. It’s unladylike, but you’ve picked the habit up in unladylike places. “Absolutely not. You need to stay off that leg, keep from using your wrist, and mind your stitches. If I have to do them again I won’t be as nice.”

“That was nice before?”

You nod, “It would have been easier for us both if you’d stayed still. I’m serious: rest up for a few weeks, don’t walk around a lot or carry anything, and try to eat regularly.”

“Well, I’ll do the last, at least. A few bumps and scrapes won’t keep Sean MacGuire down!”

“Maybe a few bumps and scrapes won’t,” You fix him with a look you usually reserve for misbehaving children and men while their wives labour, “But the medical restraints I have will tie Sean MacGuire to   
a bed until he recovers.”

He narrows his eyes like he’s trying to figure out if you’re serious. After a moment without any indication you’ll be backing down on your bed rest instructions he sags a little. There’s no doubt in your mind he has every intention of ignoring you the very first chance he gets, but hopefully he’ll last long enough to at least get a head start on healing. You pat his good arm.

“You’ll be in fine form again in no time if you’re careful.”

“I always am, doctor. I always am.” With that and a wink, he immediately tries to rise on his own and falls right back into his seat.

“Oh, and it would be best if you had a crutch for a while, until your ankle heals up.”

“I can do it.”

“You can, but you’ll find things go quicker for you if you don’t.” Like a puppy indeed, whining when he’s not allowed out in the street to get trampled. It doesn’t seem like an uncommon sentiment in this camp: the desire to ignore good sense to a self-destructive end. There’s bloodstains on the table to prove it. Whether they’re all better off together or making each other worse you don’t know. You just had to leave them to it and dream up better ways to close wounds.

Content that Sean will stay seated at least as long as it takes his embarrassment to fade, you gather your things and make for the nearest fire. There’s a small pot there already, heaven only knows what for, but it’s empty and the right size. You drop all the tools in and head back to the barrels for water. It’s tedious, the kind of job you wouldn’t have to worry about in a hospital or an office with a student or a nurse, but you’ve found a kind of peace in it: it means whatever may have happened is over, whether for good or ill. It feels like cleansing for you and the instruments alike. And it’s nice to only have to do one set.

While the pot gets to boiling you sit and reroll your bandages you’d had out to deal with Sean’s back. As soon as you are done and starting to wonder what else you can fill your time with, Miss Grimshaw appears. Abigail had warned you that the older woman was uncanny in her ability to materialize at the exact moment of idleness. She doesn’t seem to like you, and you attribute most of that to the fact she’s apparently very protective of everyone and that she was one of the people responsible for medical care before you came.

“I hope you plan to scrub that pot when you’re done with it.”

“I will.”

“That water represents a lot of hard work, you know. We aren’t on top of a spring.”

“I know.” You hope she’s just fishing for information about what you’re doing and won’t feel patronized, so you contine, “But if the metal gets cleaned between uses then it’s less likely to cause an infection. It’s very new science but it’s already proving itself.”

It must be the right answer because she just snaps at you to wash the pot again and leaves. You let the water boil for a while then tip the water out and carefully dump the tools onto a towel so they can cool. In the meantime, you follow your orders and give things a quick scrub. By the time you’ve put everything back in place and set to drying off your instruments- still carefully, as you’ve learned the hard way hold long the metal holds heat- Arthur is back in camp. Even though you’re useful enough to be welcome, it always feels better when he’s around.

*****  
He smiles as he passes by you to go talk to a man whose name you don’t know; you’ve heard him speak and surmised that he’s German, but you’ve never been introduced and he’s declined to be vaccinated. You imagine you’re below his notice. You imagine that most things outside his books are, and leave it be.

Close as you are you can hear the conversation, though you doubt you’re supposed to; Arthur is talking about debt collecting. You studied medicine in the city, you know what kind of a hole debt is, how it eats away at things, how desperate people do desperate things that turn out to make them even more desperate. Feelings well up inside you: guilt, fear, shame, rage, pity. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to chase down debtors, and you almost decide to ignore the rest of the conversation when you hear a familiar name.

“But he’s dying.”

The words are out of your mouth before you can think and both men turn to look at you. There’s a flash of surprise on their faces, then the German goes back to his disdain and Arthur to something between anger and despair. In for a penny, you think, in for a pound.

“Thomas Downes is dying and he doesn’t have money. I’ve visited his family before, I’ve bought them food because they can’t always afford meals. Their relatives are on the other side of the country, if they do have anything, Mrs Downes will need it when she’s widowed.”

“Perhaps Mr Downes should have considered more carefully before withdrawing a loan, then.” With clear distaste, he turns away from you as if the whole matter is settled, “You are, of course, within rights to do whatever you deem necessary to extract the funds. His farm is west of Valentine.”

You leave your tools and your towel to go to Arthur, “He has tuberculosis. It’s contagious, it spreads from person to person, and if you’re planning on... intimidating him you’ll likely be close enough to catch it.”

“You said you were with him, and you’re alright.”

“I’m a doctor, I know what I’m doing. Please, listen to me. No amount of money is worth this. What if you bring it back here?” It’s begging, you know it is, but you’ve seen this before and the thought of seeing it here puts an unholy terror in you, “You’re healthy, you might be able to avoid it, but could Jack? Could Hosea? You’re not deaf, Arthur, you have to have heard him coughing! He says it’s nothing but he’s lying.”

From the looks of things you might have him on the ropes. He looks less sure, he’s taken a step back, he’s wavering. He told you the first time you met that he wasn’t a good man, but he loves the people here. If this gets you driven away you can stand it, if you just know that you’ve stopped something terrible.

“It’s a horrible disease, like drowning on dry land. It hurts. I am begging you, please, let this go. It’s not worth the risk. It can’t be worth dying over.”

“Are you offering to assume the debt, doctor, because otherwise I can’t see what business you have here any longer.”

“Strauss, don’t talk like that. Just…” Arthur runs his hand down his face and sighs, “She ain’t taking on their debt. If he’s as sick as she says, you was a fool to lend to ‘em.”

“Yes, well, people who aren’t desperate seem less inclined to my terms.”

“I reckon so. I’ll talk to Dutch, see what he says he wants to do. I can’t imagine he’d want us droppin’ like flies. We can figure out about the money. Alright?”

He’s looking at you like you’re a spooked horse and it’s a tender look, but you’re terrified he’s lying. Without thinking you reach out for his hand. It’s there, you don’t even have to look for it; you know without trying where he is. His skin is rough: weatherworn, cracked, calloused.

“Please promise me you won’t go, that nobody will go.”

He sighs again, squeezes your hand before he slides away, “I promise. It’ll be alright. Why don’t you get your things and I’ll take you back to town.”

It isn’t a request.  
*****

You’ve finally got everything you need ready to go: it’s cleaned and put away. You’re more tired than you expect and are seriously considering the coffee pot by the camp’s main fire when Arthur joins you. He helps you up from your spot on the ground and takes your bag like a gentleman, even though he’d deny it if you said as much. For now you still don’t have your own horse, so your comings and goings are limited. The other people in the area have learned as much too; if they ride out from farms they usually bring another horse. Coming here, you usually just ride with whoever finds you.

By now you’re practiced at sliding back behind Arthur. The evening air is chilly, and you lean into him a little. If he minds, he doesn’t say. They don’t blindfold you anymore, for which you’re grateful, but you still avoid paying any attention at all to the road, just on principle. The ride goes by quick enough, with the sun just barely on the horizon when you reach the outskirts of town.

“Goodnight.”

“G’night, doc.”

You start the hike back to the hotel, enjoying the silence that lasts several steps before there’s hoofbeats again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again the Van Der Linde boys are bad at lying. Sean is fun "I was born burning down manor houses" I love it. I do not love Miss Grimshaw, she says some pretty awful things, but I can respect her dedication and ferocity. I also do not and never have liked Dutch (sorry, but it's true), but he probably wasn't so far gone in Chapter II that he'd expose people to fatal diseases willy nilly.
> 
> So, in 1899 "germ theory" was very new. The idea of sterilization, gloving, masks, were catching on but not completely practiced. In a pinch, boiling things and ethanol will kill a number of bacteria, but current medical grade sterilization is obviously a vast improvement over that. Viruses were only first discovered in 1892 (bacteria had been discovered centuries prior), so there was still a significant learning curve but the increased survival rates for operations was already becoming apparent.  
>  I don't remember the exact year, but this is less than a decade after it was proven that TB was contagious. The go to treatments and preventatives were still "fresh air" "sunshine" and eating well. This isn't entirely wrong, as a person's overall health determines how well they can fight TB, and warm dry air is helpful, but the death rate didn't really start to drop until into the 1920's. In the interest of saving some facts for later chapters, that's all for now!


	4. Yee-Hawgust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some short pieces I did based around yee-hawgust prompts. All of them are set around the previous chapters.
> 
> 1\. Back in the Saddle: some horse riding lessons  
> 5\. Campfire Tales: A brief history of your helpful stranger  
> 8\. Sidesaddle: Arthur's journal entry about the First Do No Harm  
> 11\. Cowboy Couture: wash day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: Mentioned animal death in 1; implied racism and violence in 11

1\. Back in the Saddle

“You… ain’t overmuch comfortable up there, are you?”

You nod. You aren’t too comfortable with horses, never have been. They’re large, with huge teeth and absolutely bizarre eyes. You shift a little in the saddle and the mare snorts.

Arthur pats her neck, “Easy, Penelope. The more nervous you are, doc, the more nervous she’ll be.”

“I’d be more than happy to get down.”

“Naw, not until you’re comfortable.”

“You can’t just keep me up here indefinitely.”

He gives you a narrow eyed look that tells you he absolutely can and will. You slump, defeated, in the saddle. This whole thing was his idea, not yours. Arthur was the one convinced your ability to break a mustang is life or death. Well, you exaggerate, but still.

“Why’re you so jumpy around ‘em anyway? They ain’t done nothin’ to you.”

You squirm again, “When I was a little girl I was on my aunt and uncle’s farm and… I saw a horse eat a little chick.”

He stares at you and you feel pressured to continue, “The chickens were all just wandering the yard and all of a sudden this horse comes over and nudges at one and then just eats it! I was horrified, they had to send me back to my parents early.”

At the end of your story he lasts about five seconds before he throws his head back and laughs. He isn’t quiet or reserved about it like he is most things, and this isn’t his usual chuckle, no, it’s a full chested laugh. You would probably enjoy the sound of it if it wasn’t at your expense.

“Oh, darlin’, I can just imagine your face. Ha! Don’t worry, Penelope here ain’t never eaten one of our chickens. We try to keep ‘em away from each other, alright?”

You still don’t think it’s funny and your face shows as much. With a sigh, he holds out his arms.

“What?”

“C’mon down. You’ve been right at home up there for a while now.”

As he mentions it you realize you’ve been so distracted you haven’t even considered the beast below you. It brings a grin to your face as you turn and drop to the ground. The way he catches you- your hands on his shoulders, his on your waist- naturally pulls you to him. Firmly planted on the ground you find yourself much closer than you need to be. He looks at you like you’ve grown fangs; it’s a surprisingly vulnerable expression and you wonder what it is that startles him so whenever you touch each other or when you compliment him.

After just a second Arthur steps back and clears his throat, and that’s the end of it.

5\. Campfire Tales

Arthur lets you use his tent from time to time, if you need a moment to steralize your things or if the reverend has been on your tail a little too hot. Right now you’re sitting on his cot sipping coffee because you’d spent the night and better part of the morning delivering a baby on a far flung farm and them immediately been called back to deal with a man stuck in the woods with a bear trap on his leg, then you ended up here and frankly you don’t remember what you did. It’s getting dark and you’re barely able to stand for exhaustion.

“You alright? Looks like you need a doctor yourself.”

“The locals are discovering that I’ll travel out of town instead of just having everybody come to my office. They’re capitalizing on it.”

You scoot over so Arthur can sit beside you with his dinner. Since he’s here to answer you tap one of the photos nailed to the wagon, “Who’s this?”

He glances up and scowls at the image, “My old man. He’s long gone, I just ain’t never got rid of the picture.”

“Oh. I thought Hosea was your father. You have the same sort of look and feel about you as he does.”

He laughs, “He may as well have been, seeing as how he raised me more than anyone else. ‘Cept maybe Dutch, but Hosea did the dirty work. Same with John, but he was a little younger.”

“I guess it helped him, you being there from the same situation.”

He shrugs, “I dunno. He was wilder than a mustang colt, I don’t reckon I made much difference.”

You hum and sip your coffee. He’s got a habit of underplaying his contributions, you’ve noticed.

“Just because you don’t see doesn’t mean it’s not there. Oh! And I wasn’t to ask, would you be so kind as to go back to the store for me soon? I’m almost out of gauze. I’m completely out of the vaccines. I   
can probably write out to order more of the common ones from Chicago or maybe Denver.”

“Shoah, I’ll go. Won’t even make you pay me this time.”

He bumps you with his shoulder and you hide the strange, sudden, soft smile you get in your coffee cup.

8\. Sidesaddle

_Met a woman in town today what says she’s a doctor. I helped her cheat the man doctor in Valentine to get her supplies he wouldn’t sell. Stole her some stuff too, even told her as much. She didn’t seem to mind, and came willingly to Horseshoe to take a look at John and Jack. Apparently we are no good at medicine, which I am willing to believe.  
She’s a strange one: I can tell she got scared a few times by me, hell, I did it on purpose once, but she presses on. We ain’t told her the truth, of course, but she’s smart and I expect she’ll figure it out.   
She says she’ll come back if we need her again, and knowing the ways things go round here it won’t be long. I think I’d kind of like to see her again, though._  
[beside the entry is a graphite sketch of a young woman, from the shoulders up.]

11\. Cowpoke Couture

It’s a stroke of luck that has washing day coinciding with the removal of so many bandages in your patients scattered around- including, notably, Bill, who’s recovered completely from somehow getting an arrowhead lodged three inches into the meat of his thigh, which is why you are at the camp at all. You’ve come to suspect Charles may have had some kind of a hand in the incident, but can prove nothing and aren’t sure your suspicion would be helpful. Bill hasn’t done anything to you personally, but while you were digging the stone out of him he did have some choice words about people and events from his time in the Army: you could see motive then to top off the means and opportunity.

Pearson had let you tag along in the wagon with the women when he drove them down to the Dakota river with the laundry. You keep a bar of lye soap handy in your bag as it is, so the impromptu trip seemed like a good chance to get some company. You can’t say you’ve ever washed anything in a river before, and there seems to be a bit of a trick to it; Mary-Beth is fortunately down river when you lose a strip of fabric, and she plucks it out of the water and hands it back like it’s nothing.

It takes you less time to scrub out most of the stains than it takes the ladies to wash a camp’s worth of clothes, so when your bandages are laid out nicely on the rocks and weighed down at the ends against the wind, you offer to help. Karen’s quick to foist half her load on you.

“You know,” She says as you eye her and wonder whether or not it might be a good idea to strip off your blouse and join her in wearing only underthings, “I like that you’re doing work, and have a job. I reckon if I could pick a job I’d want to be an engineer on a train. You’d get to go all kinds of places, meet all kinds of folk.”

“You could buy better whiskey, if you had a job, the good kind,” Tilly points out.

“They’d have it in one of the train cars, so I wouldn’t even have to go far.”

“You can’t drink at work.”

“What about you, Tilly?” Mary-Beth has been transfixed so far, “If you could do any job in the world, what would it be?”

The young woman sits back for a moment, considering, “I think I’d like to teach in one of those big universities, maybe some kind of science.”

“I want to be a writer.”

“We know, Mary-Beth.”

“Well she didn’t!”

Upstream, Abigail curses suddenly. She came down with all of you, but she’s kept to herself so far. You look over to find her struggling with something. Nobody else moves, so you do. She’s holding a shirt and fighting a spool of thread.

“Is everything alright?”

“This damn tear ain’t cooperating! It’s just… argh!”

“Let me try?” You hold out your hand and she thrusts it to you. The tear isn’t on a seam, but in the middle of the fabric, running diagonal to the grain. You flip the shirt inside out, thread the needle, and get to work. 

“You’re fast.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice; if I can’t sew a straight line as fast as possible doing mending, how could I do it when someone was bleeding out? I had to do this all the time in school.”

Some of the frustration is gone from her, “Thank you. You didn’t have to help.”

“It’s no trouble.”

You go back to your spot washing and for a moment it’s quiet except for the running of the river and the snap and slap of wet clothes. After a while, though, Tilly fixes you with a grin you can only describe as wicked.

“So tell us again about you and Arthur.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Horses and cows really will eat chicks and other small animals. Arthur's horse is named Penelope after my younger brother's RDR2 horse. He goes through them at a remarkable clip, no matter how hard he tries. She's named for Odysseus's wife.   
> 5\. I like this one; it's soft  
> 8\. The prompt is side saddle because of the character's attempt to ride side saddle when initially on Arthur's horse  
> 11\. I would never play poker with Charles there's no way he wouldn't win. In this house we respect Abigail Roberts Marston. I'd rather die than do laundry for that many disgusting people; let's be real, it wouldn't be pleasant. Nowdays medical students practice sutures on a dummy, back then they just used whoever needed stitches.


	5. All Measures Which Are Required- Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I will apply, for the benefit of the sick, all measures which are required, avoiding those twin traps of overtreatment and therapeutic nihilism"- The Hippocratic Oath.
> 
> The Valentine shoot-out shines light on a lot of things, and starts a few new chapters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've updated the tags, we now have a graphic violence warning, and from here going forward I'd like to point out the rating as well. This isn't only rated M for Mature Content (don't worry it'll happen), it's also rated M for Medical. I don't think this chapter is particularly gory, but I may not be fit to judge. Red Dead is a violent game, so I don't feel the need to tag for that other than exceptional cases, but I will keep tagging specific medical related things (I have, believe it or not, a huge phobia of needles, so I get it).
> 
> Content warnings: bullet wounds, death, medical gore?, I end so many sentence with prepositions

Up until right now you’ve been having a good few days. Things have been slow going and you’ve mostly been focused on the book of folk cures a retired midwife gave you, and on scouring the area outside of town for things like dandelions and wild oregano. You’d just come back from it, in fact, when you hear it: six shots, fired impossibly close together. Everything seems to collapse at that.

People start screaming. Horses take off. There’s more gunshots, then more still. Down the road from where you stand wood splinters off the walkway as a group of men advance on the saloon. You’re already on the sidewalk out front so it’s a short run into the hotel and a part of you is relieved to be safe. Another part of you knows you have a job to do. You never dreamed or expected to give aid in a firefight, but your conscious just won’t let you stay inside. In the end it’s an easy choice: you run upstairs, grab your things, and head back into the street and the sun.

You’ve seen terrible things before: industrial accidents in factories, advanced cases of syphilis, rotted limbs. Still, it’s a unique horror that greets you. The fight has pushed down the street so it’s not far to the first body. You don’t recognize the man, but he’s been shot in the chest. There’s a hole there, a place where the checkered pattern of his shirt just vanishes into an ugly red color. With every laboured breath blood bubbles out of the wound. You try very hard not to think about it as you kneel down to press on the source and run your fingers over his back, looking for a similar tear that might indicate the passage of the bullet through his body. 

There isn’t one. Even if you manage some miracle and get his chest sealed, he’ll die of blood poisoning. You can’t do anything and every second you spend trying is a second you put someone else at risk. It feels like time is moving wrong, like seconds are expanding much longer than they should be and then contracting to pass whole minutes in a blink. You have laudanum in your bag: you pour some down his throat and he half-swallows; you hope it’s enough to ease the pain. You wait for a moment where there are fewer shots then you run.

The next man is familiar, but you know that the same way you know what color he’s wearing: it flits into your mind and then back out, irrelevant. He’s bent double with his hands pressed into his abdomen. You don’t realize you’ve moved until you’re knelt next to him, putting a strip of leather in his mouth. He meets your eyes as he bites down and gives you a nod. A bullet embeds itself into the wood storefront near you but it feels like nothing compared to that brief permission. From there it comes to you like a textbook paragraph: incision through the skin, careful when the patient jerks- don’t think about it-, use hooks to hold the cut open, tweezers to find the forgien object if you’re able. Pull slowly- don’t think about the sounds the patient is making, or about the bodies in the street-, suture what you can see of the puncture, suture skin. Pray.

Someone yells your name and for a second you think it must be the attending physician. But when you reach for gauze you touch leather bag not metal tray. There’s wood under you both and the smell in your lungs isn’t phenol but dirt and manure. How long have you been here? You hear your name again and turn. This is costing you those strange seconds, you just hope they’re the short ones. It’s John, calling you, across the street. Someone grabs you, wraps their arm around your waist to hold you still.

“Sorry about this, darlin’. Just hold still and it’ll be over in a second.”

You try to twist, because you don’t think you’re hearing things right and you just want to see that it really is Arthur behind you, but he has you too tight. Your eyes land on the man you’d just treated: his chest is rising and falling too fast, but his eyes are closed and he looks unresponsive. The gunfire has died down, but your heart is still racing.

“Alright! We’ve got your lady doctor here! Why don’t you boys stand down?” His voice is loud and rings in your ear, but then he whispers just to you, “Don’t worry, I ain’t lettin’ anything happen to you. Whatever they do, you’ll walk away from this.”

The shooting stops, though, and out of the corner of your eye you see John and Dutch haul someone between them toward horses hitched at the end of the street. Arthur takes slow, careful steps backwards with you, keeping you between him and the buildings you pass; you’re the only one he’s exposing his back to. It occurs to you, distantly as if by telegraph and not your own thoughts, that you should probably be panicking over this, over the gunfight and being hostage. But you don’t feel panic, you’re just… not thinking about it.

He whistles and his horse closes the distance between you. This time he puts you in front of him when you mount up. Probably a precaution in case the townspeople try to pursue him; it turns out to be worthwhile because you haven’t gone forty feet when you hear someone open fire again. Arthur curses and passes you the reins before twisting around and firing back. Whatever innate drive to survive that’s kept you alive since this began takes over again, and you manage to keep Penelope steady long enough to get beyond pursuit.

Arthur doesn’t ride directly back to camp. In the space that leaves everything washes out of you. Time starts to seem normal again and your body feels like you’re inside it. You’re exhausted, suddenly, and cold. The man riding behind you doesn’t speak, but his hands are covering yours on the reigns. You’re glad for it; if not for that, you’d probably fall right out of the saddle. As it is you’re struggling to stay awake even with the splitting headache you’ve found yourself with.

When you finally arrive at the camp it’s like stepping back into the frantic chaos of that street. Your stomach does flips and it’s as if someone dumped ice water over you: your energy is back and you’re wide awake in the middle of the scramble around you even if the feelings ache like prodding at a bruise. The tents are mostly all down, fires are being buried, supplies bagged. With a gentle pressure on your back Arthur leads you through the bustle.

“Strauss got hit in the thigh. I reckon he’s fine, but I’d like you to check.”

You nod. When you get to him, though, his leg is already wrapped. You reach out, intending to check if he’s fevered, but before you touch his skin you see your hands. They’re covered in dried blood. It stains the beds of your nails, dyes your palms. It hits you all at once what you’ve done today, where those hands have been. Your hands, buried in the guts of a man on the side of the street, pressed against an opening in someone’s chest before you left him to die.

You barely make it away and behind a tree before the contents of your stomach come back up. There had been so many shots fired; how many men did you leave? You only got to two. Eventually you devolve into dry heaves, like you can’t purge what you need to, like your body is trying to get rid of your guilt. And your fear. You’d been in the path of bullets, you’d felt them fly by. Wood had splintered in front of you. It had almost been you. You could have died, and it would all be over.

Steady hands pull a shawl over your shoulder, pressing the material down onto your arms. You pull it closer with shaking hands. This time you don’t have to look to know it’s Arthur, and you find you don’t really want to; you aren’t quite sure yet how to process everything today, but you know he could be one who laid out the two men you treated today.

“First time in a fight?”

You nod, “Why were you there?”

“We were ambushed. I-, well, I’ll let Dutch tell ya the details. It was us or them, darlin’.”

For some reason that’s what makes you start crying. You’re covered in the blood of strangers, you’ve made it through something that felt impossible, but this is the moment you start crying. He wraps his arms around you and turns you so you can cry into his chest. He just admitted he killed those men, but he’s so comforting. His hand rubs up and down your back.

“You’re alright, you’re safe.”

“What if he dies? What if I was rushing and did something wrong? What if-“

“No more of that, com’n, let’s go get you cleaned up.”

With an arm around your shoulders he leads you to the water barrel, draws up a bucket, and sits with you on the ground. He takes one of your hands between his and rubs his thumb over the back of it, pulling the red away. It gives you goosebumps; you can’t bear to watch, but you can’t look away.

“Why are you doing this?”

He rolls his shoulders in a shrug, “I figured you might be scared of me, after all that. You should be; I told you in the beginning that I ain’t a good man. But it looks like you’re one of us now, and we don’t leave folks behind in any kind of way.”

You’re too exhausted to ask any of the questions you probably should, but after just a moment he continues anyway, “We can’t let you go back to Valentine right now. There ain’t really a way you can get out of tellin’ the law about us. You’re gonna have to stay with us a while. In just a little bit I’ll have to ride out to scout a new campsite. Just stick close to Abigail or Hosea, alright?”

You hadn’t thought about any of that. It’s obvious someone wanted them dead, and they’re so secretive all the time; they’re probably a gang, you suppose.

“Are you with the Irishmen in Valentine? The ones in the green coats?”

It seems to be exactly the wrong thing to say: he scowls, “No. We know ‘em, but we ain’t ‘em. They’re O’Driscols, and they’ll kill you soon as look at you.”

“They seem that way,” You say around a yawn.

The corner of his lips tips up as he pulls you up. His hand lingers on yours again, like it did when you were riding.

“I have to ride out; do what they say, but don’t let nobody bother you, alright? You’re gon’ be okay.”

“Be safe?”

“I’ll do my best. Ain’t usually good for much.”

You nod and pull your hands away; he turns around, goes to his horse, and saddles up without looking back. For a minute you just stand there, dead to a world that just keeps spinning. Eventually a hand lands on your shoulder.

“Well now, doctor, I believe you are owed a bit of an explanation. If you’d be so kind as to follow me, I’ll gladly provide.”

It’s probably a good thing, reflecting on it, that Dutch has that particular booming voice, because otherwise, you’d surely fall asleep and miss something important. 

“First off, welcome to the Van Der Linde gang.”

The name sounds familiar, and it takes your exhausted brain a moment to place it: the newspaper story about the train, about a ferry in a place called Blackwater. You’ve spent how long of the past months believing yourself to be around petty criminals when you were surrounded by some of the most wanted men since Jesse James was shot dead. No wonder they’d been so suspicious.

“You’re joking.”

“Not at all, doctor, not at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your brain can actually process information much faster than it does day to day. If you've never been in a situation that put you in that state, it's difficult to describe. Adrenaline is a helluva drug. But realistically no doctor would be able to perform surgery in the few minutes in which this mission plays out.
> 
> The big thing in stabilizing gunshot patients is stopping bleeding; the hospital sorts out the rest. Phenol was a chemical used for sterilizing things, it is still in use but not as common. Laudanum is basically just opium. If you got the right bottle it might also be alcohol and cocaine. It was used for basically everything: pain killer, cough syrup, teething relief, migraines. It's also still in use! It's prescribed as a painkiller and to control diarrhea, but it's very controlled now and nobody's go-to.
> 
> I didn't see any blood on Strauss during this mission. He's holding his thigh in the wagon, but his pants are intact. Maybe John is right and he is just whining. Bathing/Washing is one of my favourite themes: it's so intimate, so powerful, and it can be tender or sensual, it can apply to so many types of relationships. I know I just broke up the flow of the story for YeehawGust but I'll probably do it again to throw in a conversation between Charles and Arthur. Then the story can resume in Rhodes, and you can read my rant about geography!


	6. Bonus Chapter: O Traveler Where Have You Been?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Charles asks Arthur some pointed questions. Oh, and also they're looking for a new camp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't bring myself to put notes in the summary box but I hate breaking it up like this. This was fun but challenging to write, and hopefully it sheds some light on Arthur's thoughts and motivations. Also, Charles is so involved in everybody's business and he gets away with it because he's quiet! He's always asking about other people or you when you ride with him.   
> The map is expanded for reasons I'll detail below.

“So,” Charles says over the fire, “The doctor.”  
It’s not quite a statement and not quite a question, but the intention is crystal clear. Worse, Charles isn’t the kind of person anybody can feign ignorance with. Arthur glares at him over the venison. He seems to think silence will be accepted as an answer, and he’s wrong.  
“If you wanted her to come with us you probably could have asked instead of kidnapping her.” There’s a sparkle of amusement in his eyes, but nothing else in his face.  
“Since when do you have a sense of humor?”  
The other man just stares, waiting for his answer.  
“We should eat and get to bed quick; still a long ride to Lemoyne.”  
“And you want to get back to her as soon as you can.”  
“I ain’t talkin’ about this.”

The next night Charles is whittling a wooden bear. Arthur’s seen him sell them before, to people eager to believe they possess some sort of magic, or give them to children. Jack has a small collection from several of the folk at camp, but a sheep Charles carved is his favorite.   
“You know you smile for a while when you get done talking to her?”  
It takes him a second to catch the meaning. The rag in his hands slips a little and he curses when he barely catches it before it hits the ground. There’s no sense in cleaning guns if he puts the dirt back in there himself.  
“Why is this so interestin’ to you? You’re bad as Mary-Beth.”  
Charles shakes his head, “Mary-Beth says she knows everything she needs to.”  
“The hell is that supposed to mean?”  
“They’ve talked.”  
“You’re all a bunch of gossips, it’s like bein’ surrounded by schoolgirls.”  
“So what is it that makes you so interested in her?”  
“I said I ain’t talking about this!”

“It ain’t that I…” He finally says, worn down by the mix of pointed questions and silence of the past few days, “Look, I know how these things end. Outlaws ain’t the ones that get happy endings. Much as Dutch likes to act the part we ain’t knights in armor or Merry Men. She’ll leave, or she’ll get hurt or worse. And I reckon I ain’t got much heartbreak left in me ‘fore I give out all together. She ain’t gonna give up her life for the likes of me.”  
“You’re an even bigger fool than you think you are if you believe that. I’ve seen how she looks at you.”  
Arthur pulls the brush through his horse’s coat again. They need baths, all four of them, but the area they’re in is dry for miles. “Now maybe, but it’ll sink in what I’ve done, who I am.”  
“If Micah didn’t run her off, you won’t. We need to stop at a farrier in the next town; Taima is going to throw a shoe soon.”  
“How soon?”  
“Depends on how hard we ride; too soon. Why her?”  
“Oh for the love of- Fine. She’s interestin’, for one. Smart, but not so smart she forgets how to be decent to people. And she’s kind to them that need it and she’s downright vicious to them that need that.”  
Charles nods, like he’s remembering something, “I’m glad she makes you happy.”  
“Yeah… I guess she does.”  
“Next time we come across a railroad track we could follow it, let it lead us to a town.”  
“Sounds like a good idea. It’ll give us a chance to resupply too, save us the time of huntin’.”  
With the horses cared for they set up camp. When that’s done Arthur pulls out his journal, and if it seems to fall open not to a blank page, but to a sketch and a short entry these days, well, he ain’t talking about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So obviously the RDR2 map in no way reflects the scale of American geography, for the obvious reason of that would be impossible to program and annoying to play. Since I am not bound by programming limitations, I've taken the liberty of expanded the map to better reflect the sheer distance between the Rocky Mountains (Grizzilies in game) and New Orleans (Saint Dennis) and size of the latter. I haven't done it completely because I have driven from Louisiana to Montana and didn't like it in car: I can't imagine how awful it would be on horseback.


	7. All Measures Which Are Required- Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you settle into Lemoyne, Rhodes, and life in general, only to face immediate upheaval in the form of feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter isn't very medical, but I do get to talk about historical fashion, so I'm excited at least! Important to your understanding of the chapter: a shirtwaist is a blouse, the name was just very common to the period.  
> Oh, and there's mushy stuff, but surely you aren't interested in that...
> 
> Content Warnings: Micah, use of an impolite word to describe a woman, and vengeance against him i.e., scalpels

The past few weeks have, frankly, been a nightmare, and there’s no sign you’ll be waking from it any time soon. You’re not used to sharing space with so many people, and you’re certainly not used to cross country wagon travel. Even settled as you are now, supposedly, the constant feeling of being jostled remains. The gang has had years together to get used to each other’s movements; you’re in the way as often as not and are under close watch. Since camp has been established you’ve yet to be allowed to leave it for fear you’ll rat them all out.

As if your plan is to strand yourself in Lemoyne after selling out the only people you know anymore. It’s wearing perilously thin, much like your temper. You’re tired of the shouting, the fighting, Reverend Swanson following you around begging for drugs, Miss Grimshaw degrading you, and you’re extremely tired of Micah Bell. Apparently you’d had the great fortune of being around primarily while he was in Strawberry. Much like your requests to Dutch or Hosea to leave for a while, any refusal of interest on your part to his advances fell on deaf ears.

Even Kieran- who, apparently, they’d been hiding from you from you in order to avoid him divulging the truth- gets to go outside the camp. It’s not that you begrudge him that because really, you pity him, but you have things you need to do. You had a practice you wanted to start, which was really all you were able to do: all of your things were in a hotel in Valentine, save some of your medical equipment and the contents of the reticule you have tied to your belt. You’ve been borrowing shawls and hairbrushes and everything else. All you want to do is pretend things are normal for a bit. In hopes that eventually, at the rate things are going, someone will at least get shot or bit by wildlife or something, you’ve tried to keep your medical tools in good condition. It’s your luck and his misfortune that you’re sharpening scalpels when Micah comes back along.

The man always reeks of stale smoke, rot, and hot beer and he always gets close enough you can smell him. He’s not the only one in camp that needs to learn the purpose of soap- you’ve made it a personal mission to hound Sean into proper hygiene-, but he’s the only one that reeks of decay. You suspect it’s his teeth and have no intention of telling him as much.

He sits down, uninvited, next to you and leans over, “Well don’t you look like sunshine? You’ll look prettier if you smile.”

“I’m sure I’ll do as much once you’re gone.”

“Aw, ain’t you bitter!” He throws an arm around your shoulder, “If you need some help adjusting that attitude I’d be more than happy to oblige you.”

“Don’t touch me.” You’re almost hoping he doesn’t listen.

He doesn’t, “Now I’m here trying to help you, and you’re being mighty ungrateful. It’s clear you ain’t bein’ taken care of and-”  
You grab his wrist and slam it to the table before he can react and bury the blade of your scalpel into the wood under his palm. It makes a satisfying thud after piercing through flesh; the muscles in the middle of the hand aren’t so tightly woven as those on the sides. 

“You bitch!”

He’s screaming, but you’re perfectly calm, almost giddy, “If you want to keep all four fingers I’d advise you not to call me that again. It’d be very easy to split your hand in two.”

By now his hollering has drawn a crowd and before you get to make good on your threat you’re being hauled away by the arm and Dutch is yelling at Arthur to get you “the hell out of here.” You’re perfectly fine with that, you’re fine with everything turning out the way it has. If this is all it takes to get away you’d have gladly stabbed someone ages ago. Maybe the outlaw life is getting to you already.

After several minutes of struggling to keep up with Arthur’s longer stride, though, the elation starts to wear thin. He hasn’t spoken to you yet, but he looks exasperated, like you’re a housecat that’s shredded the good drapes. You’re not in the least sorry for what you’ve done since that man has been tormenting you and the other ladies and nobody else seems to have stopped him, but you do feel a twinge of guilt at making Arthur’s life a little harder. Now that you think about it, you may have also put your own at risk; if they decide you’re not trustworthy enough to let go and not safe enough to keep around, would they kill you?

“He put his hand on me,” You explain, “I told him to leave me alone and he wouldn’t, so I stabbed him. It shouldn’t cause too much trouble in the long run, he’ll likely have full use of his hand.”

The man beside you sighs, but stops walking and lets you go, “You cain’t just stab him. Now we’re down a man until he heals up and we got mouths to feed. Last thing we need is him doin' even less and whining constantly while doin' it.”

“Then let me go back to work! I want to go to town and talk to the doctor. He may not treat everybody, or may not make it out to some of the more rural areas.”

“I don’ know, we don’t really have a feel for this place yet and-”

“You said you had mouths to feed and I heard about the rich families. I bet rich families have daughters with fathers who would love to throw money away for a lady doctor for virtue’s sake. I told you I under charge the people who need help; I’m plenty capable of overcharging as well.”

He sighs again, running a hand over his mouth, “You’re gonna try this no matter what we say, ain’t ya?”

It doesn’t really sound like a question, but you nod anyway.

“Alright then, here’s what we’re doin’: We’ll go into Rhodes, but we’re walkin’. Between coming and going you outta be tired enough at the end to not be so gung-ho to assault camp members. We’ll talk to the town doctor and see what he says.”

“If he’s amiable I’d also like to see if he has a spare white coat and an idea how to order the medical supplies he doesn’t sell. And I’d like to go to the store; if I’m going to ply my trade, I’d like to do it in a different shirtwaist from the one I wear normally. Not everything washes out.”

“I suppose you don’t have much right now.” He tilts his head and looks at you a little funny, like he’s thinking about something, “Alright, but if we meet the sheriff, you really aren’t allowed to kill this one,   
Dutch thinks he might be a lead.”

As it turns out, you don’t meet the sheriff, but you do meet his deputy. You can’t say you want to kill him, but you do rather wish he’d shut up. When the pair of you walked into Rhodes you’d passed him, and he latched onto Arthur rather quickly, though he calls him a different name. The assumptions seem to be building from there.

“And you must be Mrs. Callahan! You didn’t mention you was married, sir! You look lovely ma’am, you do. Did he tell you about his assistance to the law? Real good man you’ve got here, ma’am, a good, decent man. They don’t make ‘em like that no more, my daddy says. ‘Course, he was talking ‘bout-”

“I’m terribly sorry, deputy, but my, ah, wife really needs to get to the doctor before he closes shop.”

“The doctor? Are you ill, Mrs Callahan?”

The way he takes a few quick steps back is funny, and you resist the urge to fake a cough or sneeze in his direction. Arthur, judging from the way the corner of his mouth twitches and the way he looks at   
you, has the same idea. Without thinking, you pull yourself a little closer to his side where your arms are joined.

“Naw, she’s thinking about bein’ a doctor for the ladies of the town, incase their sensibilities hinder them. Why, a man like you, I’m sure you know a thing or two about the fairer sex.”

You bite your lip to keep from laughing; the way he’s talking it’s clear he’s overplaying. It’s doubly funny because it’s a side of him you can’t say you’ve ever expected. All of a sudden he’s so confident; you notice again how handsome he really is, and how hard he seems to try to hide it from himself. For a while, on the road to Lemoyne, you thought you’d grow to hate him for uprooting your life, but you never found it in you. Even after everything, even after the violence of it all, you find yourself thinking that if he asks, you’d follow him anywhere.

It’s that thought that makes you realize. The way you feel right now, the contentment and connection and comfort, it’s far more than friendship and a much deeper trust than a passing fancy. You slam the notion down as deep inside you as you can; this not the place or the time, and you can’t imagine where to even begin with everything you’re feeling. The idea, the word floating around your mind circles around, distracting you until Arthur nudges you with his shoulder.

“You hear that?”

You shake your head, “I’m sorry, I was thinking about something.”

“He says there ain’t a doctor here.”

The deputy nods eagerly, “Yeah, our old doctor died in the war and we’ve been so slow and sleepy in our nice lil’ ole town that there’s been no need!

“A slow town doesn’t mean nobody gets sick or in the family way.”

The man blushes neck to ears, “I- Well, that is- You’re rather bold, ma’am, bold indeed. It would be, I suppose, a relief for the support of ailments, comfort for the aging, that sort of thing.”

“And I’m sure that all the Gray family havin’ a clean bill of health would be something to hold over the Braithwaites, frail as they sound.”

He looks like he’s had a vision and Arthur winks at you; you hide a laugh with a cough into your fist. The deputy takes his leave then, scampering off to- you hope- bring you some of your first clients.

“Surely that won’t work.”

“Who knows, these folks seem to be pretty locked up in this whole feud.”

You hum in acknowledgement, “I just hope it doesn’t keep half of everyone away. Between two old rich families we could cure the rest of the town. Do you want to stay outside? This will be nothing but talk about fabric, notions, and patterns, I’m afraid.”

Even though he nods, he still holds the door open for you; for his trouble you give him a curtsy in exchange. Conscious of the summer heat, you make straight for the rack of patterns and bolts of fabric in the back; it’s been a while since you last sewed a garment rather than just mending one and you aren’t looking forward to the task. Your shirtwaist would likely be very plain indeed, but you suppose the sick and dying don’t care too much about the number of ruffles. The coat you plan to write out for and order along with some supplies you’d lost; there’s no way you’ll be able to make one on your own.

You buy the necessary thread, a few needles, and the fabric required, plus enough for an additional pair of drawers. The shopkeeper tries to talk you into a few yards of lace, as well, but fails. Much of your cash was kept in the steamer trunk in your room; until you were getting a steady flow of income you’d have to ration carefully. Even without another doctor around, you weren’t expecting much, and less that if you do as promised and donate to the camp as well. As much as you’d like to stay, you probably need enough money for a train ticket at any given time.

You fold everything into a bundle, tuck it under an arm, and head back out. The sun and dust are blinding for a moment, but you hear Arthur’s voice and follow it to the side of the building. He’s talking to a veteran there who’s thanking him for something. Seizing the moment, you lean against the porch and just watch him. It’s funny how unassuming he looks. John told you he has a five thousand dollar bounty on his head, but looking at him now you can’t imagine it; he has a boyish charm, nodding as the older man tells his story, and earlier, when he was with you. But what you notice most is how, when he catches sight of you out of the corner of his eye, he stands a little taller and smiles before he could possibly realize he’s doing it. ‘Oh,’ is the only thing you can think as he comes your way. ‘Oh, him too.’

"Shall we go, Mr Callahan?"

"Ready when you are, Mrs Callahan."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's always bothered me when characters are forced to leave all their basic belongings, so much so that I tried two versions of the previous chapter to see if I could somehow give the main character a few of her things. Hairbrushes specifically have always bothered me when abandoned. Odd but true. They're mentioned specifically in this chapter because while toothbrushes were around, they weren't exactly mainstream: tooth care was fairly pricey. Since the character was probably middle or upper middle class due to the fact she had schooling, she probably did clean her teeth regularly.
> 
> As mentioned above, shirtwaists are blouses. A reticule is a small drawstring bag. Since the character was "kidnapped" while coming back into town, she was probably wearing a walking suit, which means her clothes are sturdy. "Drawers" would have looked like something we'd call bloomers today, but not like bloomers of the time; they served as the bottom layer of underwear along with a chemise. They were fairly loose, which was probably a good thing when you're in a place that regularly tops 90 degrees F and 80% humidity. In the pajama update, from what I've seen, it looks like the ladies wear their drawers and chemises to bed, so that's what they look like! The chemise is important because it kept corsets from sitting (and therefor rubbing) against skin. We'll discuss corsetry a little more in the next chapter!
> 
> I only realized writing this there isn't a doctor in Rhodes until Dr Renaud shows up and promptly leaves again. If you're wondering how things pan out as a consequence of the stabbing: Dutch is put out until Arthur tells him that it's exactly what Annabelle would have done. Hosea dies laughing. Micah learns nothing worthwhile from the events. Lowkey fake relationship troupe!


	8. An Art As Well as a Science- Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I will remember that there is art to medicine as well as science, and that warmth, sympathy, and understanding may outweigh the surgeon's knife or the chemist's drug."- The Hippocratic Oath
> 
> In which our heroine plans and participates in a theft, for a good cause.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay, but I've just started back to school and start a job and practicum placement later this week, so updates will slow down considerably. I don't like it any more than you, I promise. This chapter also gave- and part II is giving- me a lot of trouble; I actually started writing it before I finished the first part of the story because of how much I wanted it in!
> 
> This chapter is about historical birth control, and therefor contains A. incorrect information B. the struggle associated with obtaining bodily autonomy. Information on accurate birth control as well as links to resources will be at the bottom. It also mentions the Temperance movement in a humourous light, and I'd like to say going in that I respect the women who formed the backbone of the organizations. The motivation behind it was to fight poverty, domestic violence, and child abuse. They did what they could with what they had and even if they were wrong, I have nothing but appreciation for the fact they tried.

The red dust of Rhodes clings to the bottom of your skirt as you walk, dirtying the hem and your boots. It coats your lips and the inside of your mouth, too. The last months have been dry, the townspeople say, and dangerous. This seems to be the tenth time today you’ve walked around this town and you’re like the tobacco in the fields: like tinder just waiting for a strike, intended to burn but not that way. Since you left Valentine those weeks ago you feel like your feet only brush the ground before you’re catapulted back into the sky; like every time you realize the length and breadth of yourself, you find more.

With the freedom that comes of being relieved of the standard way of living has come a strange frustration with the way of the world. Until recently you’ve believed that to be a doctor was to be impartial, but you can’t believe this anymore. There’s a strange and perverse pleasure in charging a wealthy patient double and then forgiving the cost of a visit for someone else who needs it. From time to time you’ve even helped out in actual crimes committed by the gang, though typically far removed from the main action. You haven’t gone so far yet as to steal, per se, but you plan to do it soon.

As exhausted as you are, dragging yourself around on aching feet in suffocating heat and air as thick as molasses, a giddiness is rising inside you; you may actually be planning a holdup. It seems so wild in contrast to the fear you felt a few months ago trying to buy from a doctor not inclined to sell to a woman. Strange how things happen. Strange how quickly and powerfully life can swerve.

You push the door to the sheriff's office open and give the man at the desk a smile, “May I borrow Mr Callahan?”

The impression of your marriage has lingered, which has been a bit of a mixed bag; it certainly helped establish your reputation as a respectable woman in the face of mixed views on your having a profession, and it had endeared Arthur to the sheriff. That meant he could make investigations into gang activities shake out more favourably, but at the price of actually being expected to work. Likewise there were certain interests and interactions expected of a young couple attached to one another.

“Of course. He’s out back, dealin’ with the horses.”

You thank him and elect to go out the front and around rather than pick your way through the jailhouse. Sheriff Gray just nods at you. His usefulness seems… constrained. But he is right about Arthur, at least, who looks up when the horse he’s brushing pricks her ears towards you.

“Howdy.”

“Howdy. I have an idea.”

He takes a hard look at you then and you grin when he groans, throwing his head back covering his eyes like you’ll vanish if he can’t see you. So far all your tips have been good: little things you’ve caught said around town, stuff you’ve noticed in houses. Your morals have been stretched and twisted a bit to accommodate, but you have to admit it’s more fun than you expected.

“No, it’s a good one. It’s relevant to me.”

The humour in his posture vanished, “No.”

“You haven’t even heard-“

He starts walking away, down the path behind the buildings that line the main street. You have to force your feet to follow him and the time it takes forces you to walk much faster than you’d like.

“Please listen, I think it’s really worthwhile and-“

“You can tell me anythin’ you’d like but you ain’t gonna be in a hold-up.”

“I don’t have to be involved, I can wait until we have the wagon.”

He stops in front of a small shed behind the general store and opens it up. For a few seconds he vanishes inside and emerges just a second later to hand you a sliver of ice wrapped in- what you dearly   
hope is- a clean handkerchief. It’s a pleasant surprise and even though you have no idea if he has permission to do this you happily seize the chance to cool off as you walk towards the little park and its benches.

It’s only once you’ve taken to sucking on your ice that you realize he’s efficiently silenced you. This isn’t the first time you or someone else mentioned you serving as a distraction or something and Arthur has quickly and vocally shut down the discussion each occasion. You know it’s not out of disrespect, and the depth of his concern is usually touching, but this is different.

“I don’t even think there’s guns involved”.

He finally looks at you again, half glaring. It’s a good look for him, you admit resentfully, very intense. “That means there will be, and about a dozen more than you expect.”

You try again, “It’s just busting up some smuggling.”

“Of?”

Your boldness wavers suddenly in the face of the way he looks at you and the thing you have to say, held in place only by your constant reminders of professionalism, “Family planning supplies smuggled in from Europe.”

He blinks, tilting his head rather like a puppy, “Family what?”

“Condoms, feminine washes, and diaphragms.”

“You know what, I ain’t even gon’ ask what those last two are. How the hell’d you know about this one anyway?”

“I was in the stage office writing a letter to post and the clerk forgot I was there. He was talking to a driver about how some rich man was smuggling a bunch of supplies in to sell to the folks who can get   
away with ignoring dear Mr. Comstock.”

Arthur sighs, but this time it’s a sigh of resignation. You’re breaking through to him, “And how’s this benefit us?”

“Well, I was thinking I could take my cut for the tip,” You’re careful not to say ‘help’ and shut him down again, “Out of the goods themselves and supply some of the ladies around Rhodes who want it- I can see if any of the girls here in camp want anything too-, and you can fence the rest in Saint Dennis or Shreveport.”

“And there’s a market for this stuff?”

“Sure as the day is long.”

Arthur sighs and rubs his hand down his face again, “I’ll think about it. What’s it bein’ smuggled as?”

“Women’s clothes. From what I could tell they figured the type of person who’d get suspicious about that wouldn’t want to dig through bloomers and corsets and such. Since it’s so innocuous, they can’t have more than a couple guards without looking suspicious. It’s coming down from Van Horn in two days.”

One thing that’s happened lately is that you’ve started touching each other. You can’t say exactly when it started, but you’re absolutely in love with every moment that involves his hand on yours. When his fingertips brush over your skin you reach out and thread your fingers together. It makes colour rise in his cheeks in a way that’s noticeable even in the heat. For a while you just sit like that, eating your ice.

Neither of you have said anything yet about whatever it is between you that makes you touch so easily and laugh so readily. A part of you worried about that as much as you worried about the feelings themselves, but mostly it just feels… right, somehow, like this is all how it’s supposed to unfold: slowly and gently. You’re content to let everything be as it is.

“Wait a minute, they’re carrying contraband.”

Arthur looks at you like you’re losing your mind, but you gesture for him to wait you out, “If they were stopped by, say, a government investigator who searched their cart after a civilian reported a rumour, then they’d have to turn it over.”

“And you want some of us to play the agents.” He doesn’t sound thrilled, “And how would we explain you away?”

You shrug, “Women’s Temperance League, there to ensure the swift and proper disposal of immoral goods.”

That gives him pause and he narrows his eyes, “Weren’t you at one of those meetings the other day?”

“No, the local suffragettes use it as a cover since no man in this town could be less interested in going dry. Though I’m not at all opposed to the shutting down of saloons; dens of iniquity, they are, I’ve seen it firsthand: dangerous, underhanding dealings.”

The corner of his mouth twitches up at the memory, “Well ain’t you worldly, doctor?”

“You’re just getting snippy because I’m right and you know it but don’t want to have to do it.”

He rolls his eyes and hauls himself to his feet, pulling you up with him, “We can ride out tomorrow mornin’, then.”

Excitement bursts in your chest and words start tumbling out of your, “Access to these supplies could change the lives of several women in this town. Ruth Ann wound up married to a horrible man; she wants to run away but she can’t if she gets pregnant before she has train fare saved. Elenor just had her fifth delivery and she’s exhausted and overwhelmed. And the women at the saloon-”

“Darlin’,” Arthur cuts you off gently, “You get too loud you’re gonna get us all arrested on moral grounds.”

You roll your eyes but make yourself settle down, “I’ll go back to camp. Who’s going with us?”

“Ask Hosea first. If not him… I think we can probably do it ourselves. But if there’s any shootin’, you hightail it, understood?”

You give him a salute and go back to hitting the dusty roads.

Hosea not only agrees, but does so enthusiastically, capitalizing on the opportunity to tell you all sorts of embarrassing childhood stories about Arthur, and when he’s feeling merciful, John. The poor man riding beside the wagon spends most of the trip bright red and stammering. You try to look serious when you attempt to mollify him, but you absolutely file away every word. If nothing else you and Abigail will have a good laugh on your return.

Of course, this only serves to lull you into a false sense of security on the second day of travel, when Arthur leaves you to scout ahead and Hosea who promptly turns on you.

“What are your intentions towards my boy, doctor?”

Between the hooves and the space between you Arthur can’t hear the question, and the entire thing rests on your shoulders. It becomes a little difficult to swallow and you just barely manage to force out an “Excuse me?”

“He’s been hurt too many times as it is and I have a vested interest in his wellbeing at this point.”

“I’d never hurt him!” You don’t really think before you speak, but by the time the words come out you’re aware how true they are, “I couldn’t bear to hurt him.”

He turns in the seat to look at you, studying your face, “No, I don’t suppose you could at that. I just worry, my dear; I won’t be around forever, and it will make things difficult for him and Dutch... and   
John, but you’d be hard pressed to tell considering how the fool boy seems determined to make his life difficult all on his own.”

The man in question has avoided you diligently and you strongly suspect he’s afraid of doctors. Still, his habit of putting his foot in his mouth is noticeable even across camp, but so is his genuineness.

“He’ll figure things out eventually. I don’t think he means to be so… out of sorts.”

Hosea nods, “I hope one of the boys does, I’d love something like a granddaughter before I pass on.”

That statement in the context of the conversation you’d been having threw you off. Surely he wasn’t… You flounder, opening your mouth and snapping it shut again. It feels like somebody set the top of your ears on fire, and you just cannot think of any proper response to that because it would be a lie to say the thought had never- however fleetingly!- entered your head, but you couldn’t just admit that.   
And it was… a lot, honestly, to think about the future when living day to day in a whole new world. Ultimately you don’t have to answer, because Arthur rides back.

“Found a good spot to set up, just about twenty miles off the road. We can set up there and be out by the highway in the morning. Come time we’ll ride down there and wait, call the driver out, search and confiscate the wagon. Then we’ll ride back to camp, load everything up in our wagon and I’ll fence the other.”

The plan is simple but elegant: straightforward, adaptable, effencant. It’s very Arthur, you think, in the midst of mostly being grateful for his timely arrival. Something must show on your face, though,   
because he looks at you a while before sliding his eyes over to Hosea.

“You weren’t tellin’ her about the time with the cabbage and the-”

“Not at all.”

The rest of the ride and setting up camp passes in relative silence on your part. The men are laughing over old stories themselves, told patchwork as they fill in bits and pieces and argue over the truth.   
You tend to the horses in the meantime; there’s a learning curve to even being comfortable around the beasts, let alone for everything involved in their care. Kieren has been trying his hardest, bless him, but every time he so much as brushes against you in passing he panics and scatters. Nothing you say seems to reassure him that it’s alright, not even making Arthur lay off teasing him so much.  
Penelope is the easiest to deal with now that she’s used to you, so you linger there, braiding strands of her mane to keep out knots and burrs. Eventually there’s a presence at your shoulder, just a few inches too close for polite company, but too far to be anything else. It makes your chest ache. You think about the conversation with Hosea you had and your promise. At some point soon something will have to give; either you’ll say something or he will, or you’ll both lose something.

“It’s a long day tomorrow. We don’t know when that coach is goin’ by so we’ll be out by the road the whole time. You should sleep.”

Arthur is right; it’s not that you aren’t a morning person, it’s that you’re not a waking up person, and you can be a bit unpleasant. Or an outright terror, if you’re honest.

“I’m too nervous.”

“‘Bout the job? Don’t be: Hosea can talk a dog outta a butcher stall. Won’t nothing happen.”

“I believe it, I just feel like there’s so much riding on this. It isn’t like the other times where it was a hundred dollars or something, this is people’s lives. It could have been my life if my family didn’t let me go to medical school. Even if by some miracle every woman in Rhodes gets supplied from this, it won’t be but a drop in the bucket.”

He takes your arm and pulls you gently over to the bedrolls before taking a seat; you do the same.

“You cain’t solve the world’s problems, doc. Most of the time we cain’t even solve our own.”

Your hand starts to migrate towards his as it so often does these days until you catch Hosea’s eye and the mischief in it. Before anything else can be said or done you yank away and bury yourself in your bedroll, making an effort to go to sleep as quickly as you can.

It’s still not enough to make you cheerful come morning. The smell of coffee so close helps, and Arthur brews it much weaker than Pearson, making it something approaching drinkable. As soon as it was safe to come around he’d probably try to talk you into sharing the sugar you kept. Knowing how he preferred to drink coffee makes the faces he pulls when he drinks it black in front of other people all the funnier, but you might just take pity on him today since he’s doing you a favour.

A little while before you left, Marybeth had produced a dress and hat, told you they looked like your colour, and did nothing to explain where they’d come from or how she’d gotten them. Fortunately, they were perfect for looking the part of an upstanding citizen bent on rooting out corruption. You change behind the wagon, trying to preserve what little modesty communal living affords while you struggle with the bustle and your position.

And for all the torture of dressing under less than optimal conditions, the real suffering begins when the sun rises. The smell of stagnant water from the nearby swamps combines with the water heavy air and heat of day into something altogether miserable. Hosea’s stories- now exploits of his youth and still very funny- are a welcome distraction but not near enough to block out the mosquitos. You just pray it’s worth it.

It’s nearing noon when a wagon rolls up with the name of a clothing company painted on the side. After so long waiting you’ve lost some of that tension but it all snaps back in an instant. It’s like you’re on a timer now.

“Stop! Police!”

You flinch to see the men run out around a moving coach- instinct, considering the accidents you’d seen in the city-, but the driver pulls up on the reins in time; you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Now your job is to look more furious than nervous until called upon.

The driver is young and stammering the face of accusations of smuggling, but quick to acquiesce to a search. That’s your cue; you take a breath and remember your character. Sell it and there’s less suspicion, ruin it, and the job goes south. There doesn't seem to be a guard, but he may just be riding behind.

“You’ll do no such thing! It isn’t proper, you looking through women’s garments! And if there are immoral instruments then you’d best wait and avoid temptation.”

You take care to make your gestures more dramatic and your voice more shrill than need be, hoping it will throw the boy off the deep, even cadences of your partners. Arthur winks at you as he helps you up the back of the wagon. Everything is laid out in trunks. You pry the first lid off.

It’s full of split skirts- which are quite the distraction and you plan to claim one later-, but you push them aside. There’s no false bottom and nothing hidden beneath. Disappointed, you move to the next one, which is more of the same. Fear starts to sink in. You think of Elanor and Ruthann and Evelyn and- Taking a deep breath, you move to the next box.  
It’s all corsets and hosiery, but at the bottom… more boxes, stamped in Dutch. It’s exactly what you’re looking for and your first real work of the day is keeping the triumphant grin off your face. Instead you channel it into outrage.

“I knew it! I knew it! Disgusting, degenerate, this is- this is-“

“I reckon we can take it from here ma’am.

We’ll be confiscating your wagon, sir, and all its contents.”

The driver nods frantically, then, as he steps down and finds himself in swampy Leymone dirt, speaks up, “How will I get back to-“

“Be thankful we ain’t arresting you, son. You’ll get a ride.” Hosea clapped the boy on the shoulder before hauling himself up into the driver’s seat.

The twenty mile ride back is quiet, but as soon as you’re to the camp you can’t hold in your laugh any longer.

“Did you see his face when we rode off?!”

“You terrified him! How’d you pick that voice?”

“The parson’s wife was sick last week and served as quite the inspiration.”

Arthur laughs with you and it strikes you like it does each of the rare times you hear it. Your eyes wander in the moment to his mouth, his lips. Oh, you want those on yours, on you. You didn’t realize how badly until right now, this moment. It aches inside you, eating at you like a sickness. I. The end you have to rip your eyes away just so you don’t cry, excusing yourself to sort your haul.

With nervous hands you move fabric and lace from wagon to wagon, the boxes of diaphragms and condoms separate from the clothes.

“I want one of these skirts. Do you think any of the others would like a pair?”

“Kieren might could use one, seeing as he hides behind ‘em often enough.”

“Arthur Morgan you leave that poor boy alone.”

He waves a hand at you with an exasperated expression, like you’re proving his point. All the same you set one back for Mary-Beth as thanks for the dress. The real goods you’ll sort later, take your share and get them out. Hosea’s already recording everything and muttering under his breath about where and how to move everything. You’re content there’s enough. It’ll never cover the whole town, but it’s enough for the ones you know are safe to give to, and that’s something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really feel like this is my best work, but hopefully it's acceptable. But you're not reading this note for my introspection, you're reading it for information!  
> The Comstock laws in the United States were focused on eliminating "illicit" materials from distribution (mail, mostly, but by any means) including pornography, information on sex, and birth control materials. This, combined with popular opinion of the time, meant that doctors weren't allowed- if they were interested in doing so at all- to discuss or offer birth control, with the exception of condoms given to men in a few select circumstances.  
> "Feminine washes" are of course douches, which are not at all an effective means of birth control and also disrupt the natural pH of a vagina. For those of you to whom this is relevant: please do not use vaginal douches without consulting your doctor, and do not use them as a birth control method.  
> Diaphragms were invented in the mid-19th century and did crop up in America from time to time, though they were of course illegal and also invented in Europe, in Germany specifically, I think. These are still around today, though less popular than the Pill.  
> Now, what happened to the Comstock laws? Simple answer: Margaret Sanger happened. Just a few years after this story, a nurse named Margaret Sanger will print and distribute pamphlets on anatomy, sexuality, and birth control. She'll flee to Europe, visit clinics there, and eventually return (with diaphragms) to the United States to found Planned Parenthood. Speaking of:  
>  https://www.plannedparenthood.org/learn/birth-control  
> https://freethepill.org/online-pill-prescribing-resources/
> 
> Oh, and split skirts were popular for biking. They were basically pants that looked like a skirt; a lot of them had flaps across the front to button down into pants. More on women's fashion next time!


	9. An Art As Well As a Science

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a short, fluff chapter; it's mostly just scenes I wanted in theme with the last chapter that wouldn't fit directly. Don't worry, I don't describe anything remotely gynecologic: You don't want to have the procedures, I don't want to have them, you don't want to read them, I don't want to write them. We skip right over it. And thanks to the people who commented and left kudos: you guys are my motivation!

If you could forget everything you’ve done for the past three hours, you would. You’re a professional, you do your job regardless of circumstance, but you admit you wavered when that circumstance involved practicing something as intimate as contraceptives with people you knew and regularly shared meals with. Ms Grimshaw had even made an appearance to shout about things best left unsaid. Of course not everyone took you up on your offer- Sadie, for instance, who had made it clear that the day she lets another man touch her will be the day “Hell freezes to put the Grizzlies to shame and the world’s run outta bullets.” You live in constant awe and no small amount of respect for the woman.

She’d been a remarkable help for keeping interlorpers away from your work today as well; she seems to be on the mend, although you aren’t sure whatever broke in her was set right when she started healing. All the same, she’s welcome enough, chewing on a cigarette instead of smoking it for the sake of the small space of the tent you’re all crowded in. You imagine the conversation is still going mainly because everyone else is also trying to forget the whole affair too, even the ones that are grateful.

“Fer the effort of splitting the skirt, why not just make pants shorter and better fittin’ for a woman?”

Mary-Beth does another twirl in the skirt you’d acquired for her all the same, “It’s not really the same. Besides, I think I like all the buttons. It makes it look dignified.”

Sadie snorts, but Karen nods, “It does look all fanciful. Where are you gonna wear it, though?”

“I’m wearing mine on rounds; petticoats get to be such a nightmare to keep clean between the ups and downs and the… amount of fluids.”

Tilly pulls a face in sympathy. You’re fairly certain she couldn’t be less interested in the talk of clothes and is only around to avoid Ms Grimshaw. Come to think, that may be the real reason anyone is still here at all. She leaves you mostly to your own devices on account of you being a fairly steady, innocuous sort of income for the camp, but any time people stay mostly healthy she’ll come for you with the vengeance like that of the Red Death.

“You’ll have to figure out how to ride all over,” Abigail adds.

“I’m not so worried about the skirt, but I do wish that wagon had riding corsets in it too.”

Karen shrugs, “I just wear a more fitted chemise. The layers are usually good enough.”

“Trick is men’s undervests: something tight fitting but not too uncomfortable and-”

A sharp knock at the tent post cuts Sadie off and breaks all of you back into reality, “Ya’ll decent in there?”

“Unfortunately,” Somebody mutters, followed closely by, “We’ll be right out.”

All of you begrudgingly head back out into the suffocating heat of the day to find Bill of all people standing there. He stares at you blankly for a second. You stare back.

“If somebody got stomped on by a horse and their toes are turnin’ all weird and black-”

“Your toes are broken?”

“No. Is that what’s wrong?”

You take a deep breath and try again, “Bill, did someone get hurt.”

“Yeah, Javier.”

“Why didn’t you just say that?”

The man shrugs, “Didn’t know whether or not it’d be important.”

You take another deep breath, “It is. I’ll go check on him.”

At some point you’ll need to tear down your little temporary hospital tent too. You don’t bother to bring anything with you since you’re only going across camp and you doubt that even Bill could fail to tell you if the injury in question was gangrenous and needed amputation. Why Javier didn’t come to you himself is beyond you; you’ve dug buckshot out of him before, a horse accident is nothing. Perhaps it’s just one of those things that can only be attributed to the brasher sex.

You’re a little lost in thought, so you don’t notice until your shoulder is tapped that John’s sidled up to you. He looks guilty already, so you can imagine what he’s about to ask.

“Doc, when you were,” He clears his throat, “With the ladies, did Abigail-”

“That’s privileged information; if you want to know, ask her yourself.”

“But-”

“You can slink right off from here, John Marston, if you think I’m going to violate my professional ethics because you can’t get your head out of your own ass.”

The profanity stops him short- and you can hear Lenny snort trying to hide a laugh from somewhere behind you- so you press on. Javier is by the scout fire, boots off. He grins when he sees you coming. That, you think, is typically a bad sign from a patient.

“Broken toes?”

He nods, “Not the big one.”

“I can splint them if you’d like. Put your foot up on something in the meantime.”

He nods again. Usually he’s fairly talkative, so you’re assuming he’s in at least a little pain. For such a relatively small space, walking across it always seems to take a while, mostly because of the people.   
Already you can see you’ll be caught again- Uncle this time, though, which you’re considering an opportunity. Before he can open his mouth to say something you have no doubt you don’t want to hear you cut him off.

“I want you to take those condoms to the hotel in Rhodes tomorrow and give them to the girls there.”

“Me? That’s quite a risk, you know, handin’ them out. You want a poor old man in jail?”

You’re unphased, “I don’t know, do you want the camp to know what lumbago is?”

That catches him up short, “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I have a condition, diagnosed by a big city doctor that-”

“Do it, and I don’t breathe a word. Don’t, and I’ll rat you out.” You cut a strip of bandage in half for a better fit. You only need that and gauze, but you feel you can spare some yarrow that might take away some of the pain. That done, you turn to face your sudden opponent. He appears to be sizing you up.

Whatever he sees in your face seems to convince him, because he curses, “You’re a cruel, wicked woman and I hope Arthur sees that.”

“I’m sure he has. Thank you for your help.”

When you get back to Javier he appears to have opted for a method of relief via bottle, and is nursing what looks to be his second beer. The process of splinting only takes a few seconds: separating the toes and putting the gauze in position, then wrapping it all. He tells you about the lyrics to one of his songs while you work, translating it and telling you where it came from or any parts he added. 

After that’s done you feed the chickens. There are a few new chicks and despite the inevitable heartbreak, you couldn’t resist naming them. You only hope that by the time they stop looking so cute- closer to their inevitable end- you begin to lose interest. It’s a race against time. It’s during the chores that he finally comes back.

Funny things happen to your insides when you hear “Welcome back” start to drift through camp. Your stomach drops, your throat knots up, your heart flutters. Arthur is home and you can’t think of anything better in all the world. You realize you’re smiling but don’t remember when you started. It’s only been a few days since you last saw him but it seems like forever. You… love him, you’re nearly certain of it, and it terrifies and delights you. It’s as if world after world keeps exploding into new life before, like a kaleidoscope in a toy shop.

He’s smiling too, when he comes over, and it makes him look so young and so soft. You ache to touch him but he stops just shy and you can’t imagine what to do.

“I got somethin’ for you,” He says, and presses an envelope into your hand.

Confused, you extract the papers. “These are… for a horse?”

“She ain’t much, in all truth, barely more than a pony, but she’s real gentle. I found her at an auction on the way back and didn’t nobody want her for farm work, so she was cheap enough.”

It finally occurs to you what he’s done- what he’s doing. Your hand tightens on the paper, “Can I see her?”

“‘Course.”

The desire to take his hand while you walk aches like a physical wound. In the moments you glance at him he’s looking at you with such an ease in his eyes that you nearly cry. You decide then and there that you have to tell him how you feel. He may not feel the same, you may be reading in too much, but you have to let him know. It’s been months since you’ve known him and he’s been unfailingly the subject of your thoughts. You just pray it’s mutual.

The horse he takes you to is sort of gold and brown and you imagine nothing special. But she swings her head towards you when you walk closer, fixing you in her impassive gaze. You reach out slowly and stroke her mane.

“Her name’s Barley.”

You whisper it to yourself and her ears flick at the sound, “She’s beautiful. I don’t know what to say.”

“Well I just figured that you might like not having to find somebody to take you everywhere, and I know the walk into town has been gettin’ to you. You do more than you ever let on.”

The thoughtfulness catches you, as it always does, off guard. You feel vulnerable and seen all at once. It’s something beautiful. You actually really might cry. It needs to be now, you have to say it now, you know it.

“Arthur, I-”

A shout cuts across the camp, across your words, across your soul: “Morgan! Get your ass over here!”

His ears colour and he scuffs the toe of his boot in the red dirt, “I gotta go see what Dutch wants. Hold that thought?”

You nod, smiling when you don’t feel like it. He starts to turn, hesitates, and reaches over to squeeze your hand. Then he’s going and you’re watching him every step. Micah and Mr Pearson are already standing by the tent, and the former gives you a look that could sour milk. Barley pulls your attention away, nudging the envelop you’re still holding and you realize Arthur tucked a peppermint inside. The mare makes quick work of it and sniffs at you for more, already warming up to you.

“He’s a strange sort of man, Barely. But I think I’m in love with him.”

She just flicks her ears and, disappointed at the lack of further treats, settles for the grass. Arthur rides right out again before you can say a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Karen literally walks around town without a shirt. She's in her underwear. The advice on wearing snug but not tight men's undershirts is advice somebody I know gave about avoiding wearing bras, though I've never tried it myself. Cigarettes wouldn't be linked to cancer for about another 60 years, give or take, but they've always made people cough, and some people are allergic.  
> Have you ever tried to do things around camp and like a million people kept trying to talk to you? Yeah, thus this chapter. I've broken a toe before and it didn't really hurt, but I don't think that would stop Javier from using it as an excuse to day drink if he wanted to; live and let live. That is how you splint toes, in very basic terms. Lumbago is just the medical word for "lower back pain," ie something literally everyone ever has, and certainly not a terminal condition.  
> The penultimate romantic gesture: giving someone a horse. Next chapter is Blessed Are the Peacemakers and I've already started it. If you can make it through that, though, well... I did say it was rated M for more than just medicine ;)


	10. The Hard Won Gains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I will respect the hard-won scientific gains of those physicians in whose steps I walk, and gladly share such knowledge as is mine with those who are to follow." - The Hippocratic Oath
> 
> The Blessed Are The Peacemakers mission...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sphygmomanometer is just a device for reading blood pressure given an overly long name.
> 
> Warnings for: blood, needles, general medical tomfoolery, mentions of torture, shody medical ethics. Also several mentions of drug addiction.
> 
> Also, I'm considering making a tumblr to maybe share some of my research notes, give updates, etc. Thoughts?

The camp is tense, and for the first time you’re very seriously considering leaving, if not completely then at least to stay in town. It seems like just days ago everything was fine, but now there’s the heavy feeling of disaster in the air. You feel like an outsider again. Well, in the interest of truth, everything was fine just days ago. It’s only been since Dutch and Micah rode back that there’s been trouble. You aren’t privy to the reasons, you only know that Arthur rode out with them and hasn’t come back. It’s been days and an uneasy feeling has settled into your stomach.

It’s not just you either; Hosea’s been arguing with Dutch about it, Charles spent most of yesterday getting ready to ride out when nobody seemed to be paying attention, Sadie’s been leaving and coming back covered in scratches and bruises and once with a hole through the fat of her arm. Everyone is stirred up and seems to be circling up into the groups they’re used to; you’re out on the edges and Micah’s been circling you like a vulture.

He told you once, when you were rolling bandages and a safe distance from anything sharp, that Arthur wasn’t able to protect you anymore. It scares you- not for your own sake, but his. The likelihood that Arthur is dead is… substantial, you’ve just never thought of it before. He lives a risky life and you’re facing down the realities that you love a man who faces down death every day and that he may have already lost. He may be out there alone.

The thoughts are always worse at night. Lemoyne summer evenings are long and full of noise but as soon as that last glow from the sky fades it’s all you can think about. You make yourself stop pacing and go sit with Charles. He always seems to have his hands busy, something the two of you share in common. It makes him easier to sit with. At present he’s fletching arrows for- you assume- a hunting trip. You set to unravelling an old sweater you’ll be making into socks for Jack. It settles you some, but not enough.

“You know that squirrel Mary-Beth’s been feeding? It came up on the table today and stole a cracker right out of Bill’s hand.”

“I didn’t think Kieran was that brave.”

He says it without any change in expression or wavering of tone and you let out an indignant snort before you have time to stop it.

“You don’t carry around your morphine everywhere now.”

“I’ve hidden it. If the Reverend needs any he has to ask now, so I can try to wean him off. I think most days he just goes for the drink, though. I’ll keep trying.”

“Sean’s been composing a song for Karen.”

“Sober?”

“Unfortunately.”

You lapse back into silence for a while, each content with their own tasks and busy with their own thoughts. You’re putting yourself to sleep staring at the patterns of thread in the wool when a cry goes up from the men on watch. You don’t catch much past the first announcement because everything explodes into noise and the blood rushes into your ears. It doesn’t take long for your excitement to fizzle into dread. That’s certainly Penelope, but the rider is slumped over and Dutch is shouting and pushing people aside. Something hard and cold settles in the pit of your stomach as though it plans to force everything else out. Your feet are planted solid: you know the smell of blood and rot like a childhood home, you know the look of a dead man who hasn’t yet realized it.

Dutch is yelling your name. It takes you a moment to even realize; a moment and one of the girls tugging you forward by the wrist. You know what you need to do, but faced with it you’re crumbling. Never with a loved one, they told you in school, don’t even try to treat them. But you’re not in a big hospital now with the luxury of another doctor to turn to: you’re it, you’re life or death. You’ve never been so scared in your life, not even in the shootout. You can’t take a deep breath to brace yourself or you’ll be hit with that smell, so you make do by digging your nails into your palms until you can think straight.

The first thing is the pulse: is this man- do not think about who he is- still in possession of a beating heart? You feel for the point of his neck where the artery lies. The beat is there, but it’s faint. Little wonder, considering what you can already see of his injuries: bruising, burns, cuts, a half mutilated shoulder. You pull up the lid of the eye not swollen shut to see if he responds to light and find busted blood. To your right Hosea curses. You can’t recall hearing that before.

“The O'Driscolls like to hang folk upside down.”

You nearly lose yourself again at the thought, but scrape together at the last second, “I need him moved carefully to his bed, please, and hot water. Is the Reverend sober?”

“He’s drinking coffee by the pot as we speak. Lenny, Charles, move him. Tilly, take care of the water. And you,” Ms Grimshaw turns on you and you’re almost grateful, “You better know what the hell you’re doing.”

With the crowd drifting and a lowered voice you confess, “I’m probably going to have to cut into him and I don’t know that I can.”

“If you have to you will. We haven’t dragged you this far to watch you let our boy die.” Her grip on your elbow as she drags you along is firm and it’s, quite frankly, a comfort.

Arthur’s body- the body, just a body, a stranger’s body- is laid out on the bunk, breathing slow and shallow. Your kit is on the barrel where he normally shaves, looming. The simplest things come first, you were taught, so you start there. His union suit will have to be cut off before you can examine him; you aren’t going to risk manipulating limbs that may be broken. There’s a mosaic of purples, blues, and red across his body. You’ll need to check for infection, dress the burns, and deal with the cuts. 

“I need light.” The words come out dry, like old yellowed paper that crumbles when touched.

Peeling the suit away from his left shoulder troubles you; even unconscious he struggles against it and it’s easy to see why. It’s a bullet wound that didn’t go all the way through, and the edges are burned as if by powder, but not well: there are threads of fabric still in the skin, and although it’s been lacerated it isn’t even or clean. That will require an operation of its own. The damage to his torso may require surgery as well, if his organs have been bleeding. But he’s clearly lost a lot of blood, and the time it would take to treat everything may mean nothing makes a difference. You carefully feel across his abdomen for any swelling unusually feeling that might indicate something is ruptured. His legs you aren’t so worried about, since his femoral artery is obviously intact and you can just feel down for breaks; there may be one at his ankle, judging by the angle it seems to rest at.

There are a couple of places that concern you that could indicate a bigger problem, but there really isn’t much you can do at present. If you tried to operate right now it could kill him. His skin is hot and feverish, too, and risking more damage and infection doesn’t seem worth it. You move to the pile of your tools and extract the box containing your sphygmomanometer. The contraption is the result of a very generous payment from the Braithewaites poured right back into your practice. You wrap the cuff around his arm and find yourself murmuring prayers under your breath. His blood pressure is, predictably, much too low.

“Reverend, could you splint his ankle, please? And double check his arms for breaks and fractures. Miss Grimshaw, please clean and dress any injuries that won’t need suturing or my attention.”

You turn to the others in the tent, the men you know raised Arthur. Hosea has the lantern, holding it with an impossible steadiness that belies his feelings; Dutch has a dramatic look of pain and horror on his face. It makes something build up inside you that starts with irritation like a stray spark and builds to a forest fire of rage. Even as late as this morning he was assuring everyone things were fine. If he’d paid more attention when they left their meeting, or cared enough to send someone out, Arthur might not be like this. You want to scream at him, tell him he has no right to be so upset now, but you stop yourself. It’s not the time.

“He’s lost a lot of blood, too much to really heal, and I don’t know how much more internally. There is… something I can do: doctors during the war would sometimes take blood from one person and give it to another when they lost too much, but to tell the truth, there’s as good a chance of it killing him as there is of it saving him. The best chance we have is that this works, though. There’s not too much I can do, other than that.”

“Not much you can do?” Dutch’s words wash over you, cold, “Arthur is dying and that’s the best you have?”

“I’m a doctor, not a wizard or a priest; magic and miracles are beyond my scope.”

“You-” He moves forward like he plans to hit you and you’d let him try at this point. You can chalk it up to stress, or to the wrath you feel at being blamed for something more his fault than yours. Hosea, though, stops him.

“He needs blood?”

“Yes. It needs to be clean: from someone healthy who hasn’t been drinking recently. They’ll also need to have eaten, and be hydrated.”

“Could I do it?”

It’s not surprising that he would offer, but he may not be the best choice; he is getting older and you still have no idea what has him coughing. But, like everything seemed to be at the moment, making that decision could cost Arthur his life. Beyond the shadow of a doubt he’d pick Hosea’s life over his every time. Hosea would likewise lay himself down for his surrogate son, you know. 

“I would really rather-”

“I’ll do it.” Dutch stares past you to the cot, “If it shouldn’t be Hosea it should be me.”

“You meet all the requirements I said?”

He nods.

“Go get some food and a glass of water and come back. I’ll get things ready.”

He hesitates until Hosea pushes him out of the tent. You go to the chest at the foot of the bed and dig through the clothes till you hear the clink of glass. Reverend Swanson snorts and you give him an apologetic smile. You’ll have to find a new place to put them now, but it will be worth it because you don’t expect Arthur to stay unconscious very long if the transfusion works. You have to find your chloroform as well, and a syringe. In the time between that and Dutch’s return you check the splints and the dressings so far.

“Thank you both. You can leave if you need.”

The Reverend looks at the bottle you’ve set out on the table for a while before shaking himself, “I think it would be better if I did.”

Ms Grimshaw stays, eyeing you as if daring you to say something about it. Dutch comes back and still looks like Scrooge after he saw Marley. You have him sit and wash his arm before drawing his blood.   
Then you move and give it to Arthur and wait. If anyone sees the way the needle shakes in your hand as you wait they don’t say anything. But a minute passes, then another, and there’s no tossing or   
vomiting. The relief you feel almost sends you to your knees.

The procedure gets repeated until Arthur’s heart rate slows and blood pressure rises. As you predicted he starts to wake; more confident that he can handle it, you send him back to oblivion. Time bends and moves in waves through the process of cleaning, stitching, and bandaging his shoulder: you pick each thread out, each piece of debris, wash it out. Even unconscious he tries to fight the pain. By the time it’s done and you’ve sutured other cuts the sun is streaming in through the tent. He’s still feverish, though you can do nothing more at the moment.

You stumble out into the daylight and get as far as the treeline before your stomach empties itself. The smells of copper and chloroform linger like a cloud around you. You can still see… Eventually nothing else comes and you dry heave until your muscles are too exhausted for anything more. You stumble back a few feet into a tree, sink to the ground and close your eyes. Someone shakes you and you realize you must have fallen asleep even though you don’t remember it.

“Doctor? You awake?”

“Lenny?”

“Swanson is sick.”

You try to get to your feet but the young man has to catch you, “I can-”

“No, you look like a warm corpse, doctor. Tell me what to do and I’ll take care of him.”

You manage to mumble a dosage for morphine and orders as best you can. You’re physically exhausted and mentally absent, so it’s not much, but Lenny is smart and the former pastor has been dealing   
with himself a long time; you trust them to survive, at least. The girls’ beds are as far as you get before you’re collapsing back to sleep.

The days that follow are long. You don’t sleep much more than a few hours at a time, on and off throughout the day. The Reverend recovers as best he can. Arthur, though, only wakes in short bursts and stays fitful and feverish. You cycle as best you can though cold compresses, morphine, forcing fluids, and tonics. There’s a kind of shift setup to watch him, but it doesn’t offer you rest; you spend the whole time on edge, waiting to hear someone shout for you. Even at night you stay poised to run those few feet.

Bill says he’s spoken to some of the Gray boys, explained that you’re occupied with a ‘family illness.’ It’s for the best, because even if you could make yourself leave the camp you’d never be able to practice properly. Unspoken words haunt you. People come up to you and talk, worried in their own right, but it feels like as soon as they leave the memory vanishes into smoke.

It’s the third day and you nearly fell asleep on top of the bandages you’re washing when Hosea calls to you. Your heart nearly gives out and you’re running before you can think, blinking away tears. This is it: there’s going to be something so wrong that you can’t fix it, there’ll be nothing you can do and he’ll-

He’s sitting up, awake and aware of what’s around him in a way he hadn’t been since he rode in. Some noise you can’t believe a human could make comes out of your mouth. Arthur gives you a weak smile, “Howdy, darlin’.”

You know you’re crying because your hands are pressed against your face and you can feel the sting of salt water on them. There are things you really should be doing- vital signs to check, questions to ask, getting him to eat- but you can’t think of them. You can’t think of anything other than the fact he’s awake, and alive, and looking at you.

“Hell, doc, I know I wasn’t much to look at before, but could they really have done that much damage?”

“Don’t say that. Please.” Without thinking your hand flies out and your thumb traces over the slowly fading bruise ringing his eye. He puts his hand over yours and the exact opposite of what you expect happens; you snap instantly from lovestruck to professional.

“You need to eat. Pearson has broth set aside for you, we need to know you can keep it down before you try anything else. And if you’re in too much pain or if you-”

“Doctor,” Hosea cuts in, “Why don’t you go get that food? I’ll keep an eye on him another while.”

You take him up on that, fleeing like a- a… You can’t really think of anything to finish the thought. Can’t really think of anything at all, in truth. Your feet take you to Mr Pearson, who is surprisingly brief in conversation when he sees your expression. By the time you’re back in Arthur’s tent there’s a number of people there. Then, at least, you can manage to take care of the medical side of things without dealing with your feelings. Until everybody leaves for the night and you’re alone again.

It’s quiet for a while, rolling fresh bandages over his torso. Finally he manages to speak, “How long will it be before I can work again?”

“Several weeks. At least six.”

He curses. Pauses, then asks, “And you haven’t been able to work ‘cause of me?”

“It’s not important.” It’s not, you’d have rather starved than not be able to take care of him.

“Yeah it is. We need the money.”

“Everybody else works too, Arthur.”

“It ain’t enough.”

“It’s going to have to be, for a while.”

He goes quiet again. It feels like he’s in pain, and not the kind you can fix with a needle or a gas. In fact, he’s been refusing that with some regularity throughout the day. The words you shared with Hosea on the wagon come drifting back, your promise that you’d never hurt him. You love him so much but you’re hurting too, and you haven’t had the time for it. Your work for the night is done, and you’re barely able to stand, but you don’t want to leave.

“I-” You start, but nothing else comes. He looks at you. His eyes had caught your attention the very first time you saw him, and they hold it now; they look so young and innocent and so old and jaded all at once.

“I know, you ain’t gotta apologize or say nothin’ fancy.”

“You know?”

“It’s been obvious since I woke up, and I don’t blame you.”

“Wait, what?”

“If you wanna go, you should. Barely was a gift, you take her and ride into Saint Dennis or wherever you want to go. You don’t have to stay with us.”

The conversation has gotten distinctly away from you and you’re desperate to fix it, “I’m not leaving. I don’t think I could.”

“Nobody will stop you, I talked to Hosea about when you was all upset. You can go.”

“I’m not going! Would you listen to me? I’m trying to tell you I love you!”

Silence. You’re not breathing. He doesn’t look like he’s breathing, he looks like a buck caught in the light of a steam engine. 

“You- That ain’t- I-”

“You don’t have to say it back. I just… couldn’t stand the thought of nearly losing you and never getting to say.”

“That’s what you wanted to talk to me about before I left.” His voice is a whisper, flickering like the lantern light.

You nod, slowly, rather like a frightened animal yourself.

“This ain’t a good idea, darlin’, I’m not a nice man. I don’t live a nice life.”

“I know, and I wish you didn’t live like this, but you do. And I love who you are as much as I love who you could be.”

The words unsettle him; he shifts and won’t meet your eyes. You suspect that if he was able he’d walk right out the door. As it is, he’s stuck.

“I can’t promise you anything. I wish you didn’t feel anything at all about me, and that you’d just forget and ride off, but… I’m selfish enough to be glad you’re staying.” He reaches out and cups the side   
of your face with a tenderness that brings those tears back.

“I love you,” You say again.

“I love you too.”

Cheers go up outside the tent; whoops and hollerings and the sound of beers rattling in a crate. Even though you have a fairly good idea what’s going on you pull the tent flap open anyway. Sure enough,   
the camp is gathered around outside, focused on the shadows of the curtain like it’s a play. Dumbstruck, you just let the flap fall back down. Arthur’s bright red- a good sign, it means he’s recovering from the loss of blood!-, but he’s smiling.

“I suppose I also have to warn you that privacy is a bit of a fictional element ‘round here.”

You laugh at that, at the absurdity of it all, at the relief you feel. Combing your fingers through his hair, you spend a moment just staring at him. Truth be told it isn’t a pretty picture considering the bruising and the busted lip and the myriad of injuries. You bend forward and kiss his forehead.

“Why don’t you stay?”

“Okay.”

Mindful of his, well, everything, you lay down beside him and he puts an arm around you. Maybe it’s because you haven’t slept properly in days, maybe it’s something else, but you fall asleep in moments, and rest better than you ever remembered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Argh! This has probably been my least favourite chapter, and not just because I stayed up too late before work in order to finish it. There just isn't a lot medically that I could do with this, believe it or not. Most of the science just wasn't there. I also had to trim it down a LOT to get it to flow. I cut out: the doctor actually treating Rev Swanson, a scene with Tilly, a scene with Hosea and Arthur's journal. I was sorry to not get to include them but I just couldn't cut the chapter in half and have both pieces stand on their own.  
> So morphine is derived from opium, and dealing with opioids/opiate addiction is pretty serious stuff. The doctor is literally shooting in the dark to treat Rev Swanson which is very dangerous because that can kill somebody. But the drugs used to combat that particular invention are very new even today.  
> Blood transfusions! Yes they existed! No they did not know about blood types! I've never had to headcanon a character's bloodtype before. Statistically speaking either Dutch or Arthur or both are O+ or A+, as those are the most common bloodtypes.  
> Laceration, especially by shotgun powder, is not a great way of treating bullet wounds and wasn't super popular even in the 1890's. When they did lacerate, they used silver nitrate more commonly than heat.  
> I almost included a craniotomy (cutting open the skull) and decided against it. Don't hang upside down too long, kids, because it puts pressure on your lungs! That sure sounds relevant! But you'd be good for a really long time assuming good overall health.   
> Six weeks is bone healing time, apparently.  
> I will see you all next time! Goodnight!


	11. The Skills of Another

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trip to Saint Dennis. I'm not gonna lie to ya'll, this is like 4,000 words of foreplay followed by the shortest, most vanilla smut imaginable. But that's good! Two partners loving each other and being kind and gentle to each other is good!
> 
> "I will not be ashamed to say "I know not," nor will I fail to call in my colleagues when the skills of another are needed for a patient's recovery."
> 
> I guess a slight warning in that due to the fact the heroine is at least middle class in the Victorian era she is a virgin but that doesn't play at all into the spicy bits. Also some crying, but the happy kind.

It’s been a very good day, all told. The weather has stirred up a bit and even if it hasn’t rained, it’s much cooler and more livable today. You had a very light load today, with most of your time spent socializing with some local ladies. Your reappearance a few weeks ago was made carefully and full of wet eyes and wavering voice, whispering about how terrified you were that you could have been widowed. It kept anyone from being too angry with you for vanishing for a while. You’re also glad to be heading home early because you’re certain Arthur has been overdoing it. He’s under strict orders to keep near the camp and only do light work to build his movement and muscle tone back up after the injuries to his shoulder, wrist, and ankle.

Judging from the fact you come back to him sitting red faced and smiling like a little boy with jam stained fingers who swears it wasn’t him who got in the preserves. You don’t even bother asking what he was up to; you’d rather not know. Instead you just take his face in your hands and lean down for a kiss. It’s short, gentle, and delicious. Sometimes you think you enjoy the tender and brief presses of each other's lips more than the more passionate kisses you’ve shared. There’s just something about the way he’ll kiss your forehead when you go, or your nose after he’s made you laugh, or the inside of your wrist while he just stares into your eyes that makes you feel so cherished. Even thinking of it makes your toes curl in your shoes from happiness.

You decide to kiss him again, just because you can, at the corner of his mouth. He catches you and turns his head. You’re very much enjoying yourselves when someone wolf whistles.

“English! If you need pointers on how to actually kiss a girl you can always just ask!”

With a sigh you let your head fall onto Arthur’s shoulder. It’s always like this. Any time you kiss, any time you touch, any morning you leave his tent, no matter how innocent everything is, is subject to  
comment. In such close quarters nothing is secret. And apparently the pair of you are the most entertaining by far. You’ve hoped over the last two months the novelty would wear off, but no luck yet.  
Lately the pair of you have taken to sneaking away, since he can travel short distances again, and making use of the opportunity to share longer, deeper kisses and allow your hands to wander just a bit.  
It hasn’t been more than that. He’s been injured and you’re… well, you were raised in an upstanding home to be a proper lady. But you’ve given up a lot of things associated with being ladylike and proper along the way. You wonder sometimes if your mother would be proud or disappointed. And surely loving somebody can’t be more wrong than stealing? You’ve done that. It’s just, well…

“I can ride again, right darlin’?”

You nod.

“You got anybody to see the next few days?”

You shake your head.

“Let me take you to Saint Dennis. We got some talkin’ to do, I reckon, and I’ve been stuck here too long.”

“I thought you hated civilization?” You sit back up to get a look at him, as if it would explain why a man who’d rather sleep on pine needles than a bed would suddenly willingly go into one of the biggest cities in the South.

“I do, but I feel bad for coming at this courtin’ thing so sideways. I feel like I at least should buy you dinner.”

The thought is certainly appealing but, “I don’t think you should ride that long, especially not with those Raiders everywhere.”

“We can take the train, then.”

You hum, brushing the hair falling over his forehead back in the direction of his part, “Certainly; no one ever robs trains, or gets in fist fights in meat cars, or into gunfights on the roof, or-”

He catches your hand and gives you what you’re sure he means to be a chastising look, but it’s too cute to take seriously. You press another kiss to his forehead.

“I’ll go pack my things, you go make excuses.”

To your pleasant surprise the train ride goes smoothly. Nobody decides to hold you up and no crazed former gunslingers decide to shoot the place up. Instead you just get to sit with the man you love and talk about everything and nothing. You tell him stories about growing up, about the pranks you were a part of in medical school, about what brought you to Valentine. He tells you- more quietly- the story of his first robbery with Dutch and Hosea and several key stories about John as a child. The fact the man survived into adulthood has always astounded you, but now it seems like sheer divine intervention.

When the day wears on you fall asleep against his shoulder. It’s hardly the first time, but every time it happens it always makes you happy- at least until you wake up and have a crick in your neck, anyway. Kept in only the lightest sleep by the noise and motion around you drift through strange dreams of saturated greens and pale blue skies. Although you can’t say for certain, it seems like you’re trying to name the shapes of the clouds, but when you come close to dragging out the name from the cobwebs of your brain they float away.

A soft nudge jerks you more harshly awake than it should have and you work to blink away the fuzz in your head. Your neck, predictably, hurts. When Arthur’s thumb brushes your bottom lip you realize you must have made a face. He looks at you with a mix of pity and humour.

“We’re here, darlin’.”

The early morning light casts the haze of living casts the city in a strange, unforgiving light and it still steals your breath for a moment. It’s been such a long time since you departed Chicago into the West and even Chicago didn’t look like this. The arches and columns aren’t quite French or Spanish either, but something unique to the city. You will say you haven’t missed the smell of such a press of people, though.

“What do you want to do?”

As lovely as it is to have options available in answer to that question that aren’t ‘clean fish’ or ‘wash clothes,’ the options are a little overwhelming. There’s a number of things you’d like to do. 

“I’d like to go to the library. I lost all my books and I haven’t had much time to read anyway.”

“I ain’t gonna lie to you, I don’t have a clue where that is.”

So you begin your adventure asking a ticket clerk for directions, hopping on a trolley, finding out it’s the wrong trolley, and trying a different one. Arthur gives up his seat to an older woman and she calls him sweet and starts gushing about him. By the time you reach the library he’s as red as watermelon and you’re about to burst holding back your laughter. He sulks off into stacks of books with a half-hearted glare as soon as you’re inside.

It feels wonderful to be surrounded by the smell of paper and ink again. This was one of your favourite parts of your schooling: the peace and quiet of a hall of learning. The library has a few new medical journals and you acquire them with only minor patronization from the staff. There’s quite a bit of information on tropical diseases, and a new map of the brain, labelled and broken down. They keep your attention so well you find yourself lost in taking notes until your stomach begins to ache to remind you to eat. You go in hunt of Arthur.

He’s in another section, several books on the table in front of him. Some are printed images of birds, others of flowers, and one of techniques for pastels. His journal is open too, something not even you have seen more than a glimpse of. There are sketches down the sides of the plants and animals in the books, but also of the room and the people in it. As you approach you lay your hand on his shoulder; he jumps and you can see reflex dragging his hand towards his gun until he realizes it’s you and pulls your hand back down, holding it in place. At the same time he flips his journal closed again.

“You done?”

“I’m hungry, but I can wait if you aren’t finished.”

“Naw, I’m fine. I was just… bein’ a fool as usual, I suppose.”

Hearing him talk about himself as if he was unimportant always hurts you, but it angers you now too because of how short he’s selling himself. The journal disappears into his satchel and the two of you head out. Food should be easier to find, the pair of you assume, since you’ll be able to smell it. The library is in a nicer area of town, not full of the stench of the docks by the station.

“I think you should get a set of pastels and try them, if that’s something you want.”

“There’s no sense in wasting money on that type thing.”

The whole situation annoys you. You’re sure he can tell, considering how tightly you’re squeezing his hand. More than anything you want him to be happy but he seems dead set on being your greatest opponent in that endeavour. You stop walking and make him look at you.

“I’ll buy them for you then.”

“N-”

“I love you. I love you, and all your determination to be miserable will not stop me. I don’t care that you think you aren’t good; you enjoy art, you like to draw, and that means you should do it.”

Arthur just stares at you for a while, occasionally looking like he’ll say something, but never quite finishing it up. Finally he sighs and shakes his head, “If it’s what you want, I can’t stop you.”

“It is.”

He’s quiet the rest of the walk to the market district. After a while you worry that his leg may be troubling him, but he doesn’t favor it. Doubt about what you’ve said begins to creep in. Did you push the topic too hard? Did you misunderstand? Everyone’s told you that Arthur was prone to bouts of melancholy, that he’d sometimes go quiet for a long while and worried more than he should. Have you done something to make that so? You slide your hand up his arm; he glances down at you.

“Are you alright?”

For your trouble you receive a weak smile, “I’m fine, just thinkin’.”

“We can sit down for a bit if you need to.”

“Are you ever gonna let me be all healed up?”

“I almost lost you,” You find yourself whispering. You don’t really mean to because surely it can’t improve his mood. He gives you a long look and does sit down then, pulling you with him.

“Nothing’s put me in the ground yet.”

You glare at him. It’s not funny.

“I was engaged once before, when I was younger. She was a nice society lady- her name was Mary, you may of heard of her from somebody-, but we didn’t make it. Her family didn’t like me: me and my money weren’t good enough for the likes of them. It’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about. I figured you should know, at least. But hearin’ you talk about me like you do… Guess I was just thinking about how different this is.”

He blurts it all out like it’s something that’s been eating at him. You don’t exactly have to ask if it’s a good different. No wonder everyone was so aggressive when he first brought you around: they didn’t want to see him hurt.

“Alright.”

“Alright? That’s it?”

“You said it was a long time ago, and my family gave up all hope of directing my future a long time ago. Unless you need to say more, I’m alright.”

He blinks at you, “Not much bothers you, does it?”

You laugh and drag him back to his feet, ignoring his question in favour of hunting down food. Your journey takes you to an open air market where you buy bowls of fried rice from a Chinese chef. The chopsticks you’re both given feel strange in your hands and you till the food is almost cold trying to figure them out. Arthur is a faster study and, when you’re focused on trying to hold your hand the way some of the other patrons are, he tries to sneak the chicken out of your bowl. After a while he takes pity on you and gives you a fork from his satchel. Apparently he’s had it the whole time and you briefly consider stabbing him with it.

Hunger manages to dissuade you; you’re past ready to eat and don’t want blood in your food, and your cowboy promises to pay you back in dessert for the stolen chicken. After returning your bowls you set off into the press of the market again. It doesn’t take long for the pair of you to draw strange looks, because Arthur seems to greet every person he comes across, regardless of age or race. One look from him, though, sends everybody who looks stupid enough to complain scampering. Moments like these you wonder how he ever got it in his head that he’s wholly evil and unforgivable. You’ve never tried to make excuses for the fact he kills and robs, and you hope one day he’ll set his guns down for good, but you can’t help but resent the fact he was allowed to grow this way. His hand feels heavy in yours, now that you think about it.

But you banish the thought as quickly as you can. Today is about enjoying each other’s company while you have the chance, and you’re determined to take full advantage. So you do: you try to dance to the music a street performer plays as best you can while Arthur stubbornly stands completely still; you eat freshly fried beignets and get powdered sugar absolutely everywhere because he tells a joke right before you’re able to take a bite; you buy a hair comb from a stall in the market and drag him to an art shop. The nearly reverent way he tucks the wooden box of pastel crayons into his satchel tells you everything you need to know about whether or not he wanted them. You snatch up the last two issues of the Inter Ocean Chicago and refuse to explain yourself.

Night seems to fall so quickly. Your chest aches from laughter and your feet are sore as you walk through a residential neighborhood obviously for the wealthy. It has crossed your mind you may be involved in casing the houses but you’d like to think you’d be told as much.

“Well, then he has a choice: if he wants the money back he’s gonna have to run outside after us, but he’s gonna be naked doing it.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Whether you believe it or not it’s true, it even made the paper.”

You open your mouth to reply but only manage a yawn. He notices, of course. 

“You want to find a place to turn in for the night?”

It’s occurred to you that the pair of you will be spending the night in the city, but broaching the topic feels like you’ve swallowed a gallon of iced water. All the same, you nod. Other thoughts have also occurred to you, like the fact that you’d very much like to take advantage of the privacy and presence of an actual bed. You’d like to take advantage of the company as well.

“We, ah, don’t have to share a room or anything.”

“Are you objecting to…”

“No, I just don’t want-

You pull him down by the shirt collar and kiss him hard. It’s a wonderful moment; he pulls you closer with a hand on your waist and you positively melt. At least until a shrill whistle breaks the air and an  
officer shouts at you, threatening you with public indecency. Red as beets and hand in hand the two of you take off into the nearest alley until you’re far enough away to break into laughter.

“You’ll have a wanted poster all your own, soon,” He teases.

“I was corrupted. It’s tragic, really.”

“Hm. I seem to recall being the party receiving the indecent act.”

“And yet you failed to complain.”

He holds open the door of the hotel you’ve found and the man at the desk glares at the both of you. In the face of the affection you feel for the man wrapping his arm back around you it means next to nothing.

“Pardon me, sir, can we get two baths and a room?”

“This is a reputable establishment, we only give rooms to married couples.”

By this point you’re so used to the ruse you don’t miss a beat, laying a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, “We are, sir. Mr and Mrs Callahan, that’s us.”

“You don’t have wedding bands.” The miserable little man almost looked proud of his obstruction.

“Oh! That’s my fault, sir. A friend of mine told me how hers was stolen in Saint Dennis and I was terrified of losing ours. My husband is a rancher, sir, and it’s been a rough year, so replacing them would  
be so difficult, and I was so nervous I made him hide them at home before we came. Didn’t I, dear?”

Arthur nods dutifully.

“I didn’t even think about needing them for lodgings, I’m so sorry. I-”

The host holds up a hand, “Very well, I’ll take you for your word. You’ll find the baths upstairs, ladies on the left, gentleman’s on the right. Room 8 is yours for the night, and you owe three dollars.”

The price seems excessive, but you only half pay attention considering you’re about to get your first real bath in what seems like ages. Getting clean without worrying about leeches is not something you ever thought to find yourself particularly grateful for, but you very much are. It’s also very nice to finally be able to set down the bag you and Arthur had taken turns carrying all day. Maybe you should have found a hotel first? When you pull your nightgown and dressing gown from the bag you also pull a handkerchief wrapped tight around one of the diaphragms you’d stolen. Then you head for the bathroom.

Everything is as wonderful as you imagined; there’s real soap, scented with lavender, and hot water. You nearly cry getting into the tub and really spend more time than you should just lounging in the suds. It’s only when you begin to drift off, spick and span, that the idea of leaving the water even occurs to you, and then it’s begrudgingly. Only the thought of the clean sheets and soft bed motivate you.  
Honestly, Arthur doesn’t even figure into that calculation, and you aren’t sure what that says about you. Maybe it’s more of a statement of the glories of steady access to cleanliness then it is about you.  
You dress in your nightclothes, leaving the rest to be laundered. Everything else you… take care of; it’s not so horrible as you expected, but it wasn’t a comfortable process exactly. Somehow you make it back to the room first. You know if you get into bed you’ll fall asleep almost immediately, so you shed your dressing gown and take up sentry in an armchair by the gaslight and pull out your knitting. It’s gotten knotted spectacularly, so really, you’re un-knitting it. This is why you prefer sewing.

The door opens and Arthur walks in, wearing clean pants and nothing else. Your throat seems to close of its own accord so you quickly turn your attention back to the yarn you’re untangling. When you work up the courage to look at him again he’s doing the same back to you, but after a moment something almost appraising enters his eyes. You call his name and he looks embarrassed, like he wants to ask something.

“What is it?”

“Nothing, just… Can I- Naw, never mind.”

“Ask.”

“Do you mind if I draw you?”

“In this?” It seems indecent somehow, even though just being in your nightgown in front of him is probably also indecent.

He nods, not quite meeting your eyes. 

“Alright, go ahead.”

That seems to be all he needs; he sits on the bed and pulls out that journal again, flips through the pages. You sit as still as you can as his pencil slides and jumps across the page. Every time he looks up at you it’s with such an intensity that you struggle to breath. At one point he leans forward and brushes the sleeve of your gown down your shoulder. His eyes don’t leave yours as he does it, not for a second. Everything seems to exist inside this moment, inside the feather-light touch of his skin down your arm, inside the half-humble half-hungry look in his eyes. You want to cry, or shout, or do anything at all because it feels like a dream and too completely real all at once.

You dread the moment he pulls away, when he picks his journal back up. You dread it, but it doesn’t come. Instead those calloused fingers trace right back up your bared skin to your chin and pull you in. His kiss is hot and lonely and desperate and it makes you want to crawl inside of him. Your fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck. He’s bent half over at an angle that must be uncomfortable for him; you really want to suggest moving but before you can he hauls you up like you weigh nothing. You’re acutely aware of the tensed muscles of his arms around you.

When you part you hear his breaths in your ear, warm and deep and fast. His kisses feel like a brand as they move over your neck. You dig your fingers into his shoulders because you really don’t know what else to do. In this moment you’d die if he left you. It’s love, and you love him fit to burst, but it’s more, too. It’s something you don’t have words for anymore. You feel shaky as a new foal in the face of it.

“You wanna do this, darlin’?”

“Yes please,” You whisper, unable to rally your voice.

“Did you, ah, keep any of that stuff we stole?”

This time you just nod. One of your hands is on his chest, pressed against the muscle there. Strange, conflicting impulses fill you; you want to dig into him, have rough touches and sloppy kisses, but you want just as badly something slow and precious. Arthur curses.

“You can’t keep looking at me like that.”

“I can’t look at you at all if you’re kissing me.”

“Then I reckon we have an arrangement.”

But he doesn’t kiss you again right away; he leads you to the bed, your hand resting on his like he was escorting you to a dance. You go where he leads, like you have, like you feel you will forever. His hand stays steady on your back as you lay down, tugging him with you. The weight and warmth of him on top of you sends shudders through you. Then he’s still again, staring at you until he finds whatever it is he’s looking for- if you knew, you’d give it to him without question, but you can only guess- and he hides his face in the crook of your neck.

“I never thought I’d have this again.”

“You have it forever.”

That breaks something in him, you can tell. Without warning Arthur’s mouth is on yours again, then moving down your throat, across your collarbones, at the edge of your neckline. Of its own accord your body starts to move. It feels like energy is bursting all across your skin. One of his hands slides up your leg to rest just over your knee before he pauses again. This time, at least, you do know what he’s waiting for.

“Please.” The word is much breathier than you expect.

He doesn’t second guess you, just pushes your gown up until you can pull it off. For a second you worry about the material of his pants against some very sensitive skin but he seems to be taking care of that by removing them. You quickly focus on the ceiling, brave but not that brave. Even with… jitters, you’re happier than you can recall being, just to be here with him. This is something you want, want so badly you ache for it. When he draws close to you again you tangle your fingers in his hair. The closeness reminds you of sunbathing: all warm and boneless.

His fingers move slowly: the soft part of your knee, the skin of your thigh, the crease of your hip. They brush a ticklish spot and you squeal before burning in embarrassment. It makes him laugh so you can’t regret it. The sound echoes so clearly for you that you don’t even notice until your body tenses that he’s touched you. His movements are slow and careful and you love him for it but clearly he doesn’t understand what he does to you because you need so much more. Every motion feels perfect and tortuous. When he finally slips a finger inside you grip his hair so tightly that he flinches.

He speaks before you can apologize, “Yer so beautiful.” The mattress moves as he shifts his weight, freeing his other hand to wander your body, “I couldn’t imagine anythin’ better.”

As wonderful as it feels when he squeezes the tender flesh of your hip or caresses over breast you catch his hand instead and twine your fingers with his. It’s timed perfectly for you to anchor yourself as pleasure washes over you. After, when he pulls away, it’s slow and slight and he stays close, watching you. He keeps watching as he moves- still holding your hand- over you. You feel loose and soft but you still want him so badly.

The way he moves, the way he touches you, it reminds you of those first times he touched you as he helped you down from the saddle, before any of this seemed possible: firm, gentle, sure. Your whole body feels it when he enters you and you don’t have a way to describe it. You’re stunned, completely and wonderfully stunned. In the wake of it you take in the size and strength of his body and the noises he makes; nothing you could ever imagine is more erotic than this point in time. As you turn your face to hide it against the skin of his throat you feel the tears in your eyes for the first time. Arthur freezes stiff and makes to pull away but you hold him still.

“They’re good,” You whisper, “You make me feel so good.” Turning further, you mouth gently at his ear.

You feel him shudder against you and hear him whisper your name. He’s finished, and the feeling of him there in your arms, the knowledge of what you’ve shared, it sends you to join him. At the end of it you’re tired and just want to settle against him, but he’s suddenly restless and blushy and flustered. You allow him to be, for a while; he helps you clean up for bed and acts as if he may suddenly be barred from touching you. It wears thin quickly and you can’t sleep while he’s tossing so, always on the edge of asking you things without ever finishing his thought, and so you pull him down next to you and curl against him like you would in his tent. Tangled up with you like he is he’s rendered immoble and begins to settle.

Soon you’ll go back. You’ll see your patients, he’ll do his job. Both of you will be shouted at, probably, and you and him will tuck this moment away to where the fear and doubt can’t eat away at it. But that’s in the future. Right now, you’re curled around him, sleepy and satisfied. You love him and don’t plan to lose him any time soon. He loves you and you know he does. It’s enough. Right now is enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This... was supposed to be around 3,000 words. It's almost 5,000. It's also only my second time ever actually writing smut. Anyways, the information in the journals were real discoveries of the years around this fic and pastel crayons were a popular medium of the time. The Inter Ocean Chicago thing will be explained...  
> Next chapter is a Halloween special!  
> So my brother tried bake beignets recently? Why wouldn't he fry them? No clue, but he put them in during the preheat and completely ruined them.


	12. Strange Things, Which I Dare Not Confess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! It's spooky season!  
> This chapter is a Halloween Special playing off the Undead Nightmare ambiance. It's darker and has a much more jaded version of the narrator, and gets a bit gory in a few places.
> 
> The title is from Dracula (the novel, not the show, or the movie, or the other movie, or...) "I think strange things, which I dare not confess, even to my own soul..."

The mob was, in your opinion, a bit much. You’re used to it by now, and of course with the plague of undead tormenting the country, necromancy isn’t exactly a popular choice of practice. Nobody ever seems to understand, though, that you can’t help it. Magic is innate, and yours just happens to tend towards the reanimation of corpses. You’d think more of these people would even be grateful, since your lichs couldn’t become zombies. But no, it was mobs for you everywhere you go regardless of your attempts.

You sulk at the table, on standby in case some other idiot takes his trigger finger off and expects you to reattach it. The Van der Linde gang is full of such idiots, but they’ve been decent to you since they’d saved you from the mob you’re brooding over now. They pop in mind from time to town, and you’d really liked Strawberry. Before, you’d been offended they’d wanted to hang you alongside a criminal, now you were even more so considering that criminal was Micah Bell. You’d offered, if someone could just take him somewhere dangerous, to reanimate him and make him much more useful and less horrible. Dutch had forbidden it. Well, he’d forbidden the intentional danger part, not the reanimation. You’re just gonna bide your time on that one.

“What’re you scowling over?”

“I’m bemoaning my lack of an undead army poised for world domination.”

Arthur snorts as he sits next to you, “If anybody was gonna do it, it’d be you.”

“You flatter me.”

You’re a mage, a necromancer. Dutch is a vampire. Hosea is an illusionist (and you think maybe a bit of a mind reader, but you don’t have proof). There’s strains of magic all through the camp, but   
nobody’s ever quite told you what Arthur is, and you’re afraid to ask. He’s not dead, though. Uncle is, and comes to you way too often asking you to reattach things or deal with decaying flesh. 

“How are we today?”

“Safe. The nearest zombie I can feel is… maybe three dozen miles away, headed further.”

He sighs, “Wouldn’t be such a problem with them things if people just buried folks in cemeteries.”

“Yes, those darn outlaws killing folks outside city limits,” You deadpan, just trying to get him to give you that look he has. You love that look; it makes your insides flip. He probably means it to be   
threatening or at least cajoling, but it just does something to you. But you don’t get that look.

“What’s really bothering ya?”

“It’s the anniversary of the first body I raised,” You confess begrudgingly. You’ve been caught so there’s no real reason not to, “I used to be from a nice home, you know? The first thing I manifested was   
healing and everybody loved it: a proper talent for a proper lady. And then one day some woman down the street runs to me begging me to see about her husband, who’d fallen out on the floor. I go, and   
he’s dead. It was the first body I’d seen and it… called to me. I just assumed I could heal him still, so I tried.

I didn’t know yet how to raise a soul with a body to make lichs instead of just reanimating a corpse. The husband sat up, his wife screamed that it was a miracle, but his eyes were so blank. Necromancy   
wasn’t popular even before some idiot started an apocalypse, and less so for a lady. They sent me away to the college, then they eventually shoved me out to be an apprentice, and my master decided we   
should be more than teacher and pupil, which I objected to, so he tried to make me his lich. I’d never actually killed anyone before that.”

“I don’t reckon the world misses him much.”

“No it certainly doesn’t. It won’t miss me either.”

He shrugs, “There’s always some sentimental fool too caught up in lovin’ an outlaw story to be glad the likes of us is gone.”

Zombies come every so often. You can feel them and usually release their curse. When you can’t, well, there’s a lot of guns in camp. When you go through towns clearing out the hordes it’s always only ever a matter of time before you’re run out. Sometimes it’s the boys’ fault for fighting or stealing. Sometimes it’s Dutch’s fault for, well, being himself. Sometimes it’s yours, like the time a man touched   
Marybeth in a saloon and before you could think you’d unravelled his arm from his body. Sometimes it’s nobody’s fault and the town just can’t support outsiders, can barely support the folks it’s got.

Still, the lot of you go, and fight, and accept what you get when you’re able to get it. There’s not much else to do, really. Everybody used to be outlaws, they told you, but there’s not much to take   
anymore; the money is next to meaningless and the rich are far away. Food is valuable and there’s nobody alive hardly who hasn’t stolen it at some point to survive, but it’s not the same. You try to avoid   
it, most of you do, and work instead. There’s less of everything to go around and that includes able bodied workers.

Of late, when you’re in town in hotels offered by people with temporary gratitude you stay with Arthur. It earns you looks from a few members of the gang but the world is in ruins and if you sit and think   
about anything too long you'd break down. What you have with him is good. You make eachother okay for a while. It feels good to not be lonely or feared. It feels good to just be. In the ruins of everything   
you live in you aren’t sure if love exists anymore or if everything is too hollow and dulled for it, but you care about him as much as you have in you left to do so. 

A hotel keeper- or a man who used to be, and is mostly now a guard- glares at you going up one night. It was a long fight; the whole town knows the measure of you. He nods to Arthur.

“How do I know she ain’t compelling your body or such?”

Arthur just tips his hat, “Oh, she’s only doin’ that in the good old fashioned way. G’night.”

Later, when you’ve asked and he’s given permission, you use your power on him for the first time. Straddling his body, you plant your hand on his chest and seek the familiar current of his nerves. Usually   
when you do this you’re blocking pain, but you concentrate instead on growing pleasure. The next morning when you ride out he still stares at you like you’re an angel come down.

One day after a fight you find a bite on Arthur’s arm and you lose every bit of light in your body. You can’t pull this out, you can’t block it or cut it off. This isn’t a broken bone or a gash or even a tumor.   
He catches your hands when they start shaking.

“Ain’t nothin’ to worry about, darlin’, I’ve been bit before. It can’t affect me.”

“That impossible, it affects all humans, it-“

“I ain’t human, though. I’m a curse, darlin’, a curse made flesh. My momma was a real powerful witch and my daddy was a real bad man. She made me manifest. I don’t know the details of what I am, but I   
must still work to be around.”

You’d heard about such things, about curses trapped in bodies to enact their goal, back in the college, but never like this. Dumbstruck, you reach for his face and rest your hands there. He turns away   
from the look on your face, like he’s ashamed.

“That’s… Do you know what you were meant to be?”

He shrugs, “Somethin’ bad, to get him back, I think. She died when I was real young so all I know is that I ain’t a lucky charm.”

The jarring feeling of being certain one moment you were going to lose him and then getting him back only to discover this truth has you laughing at that when you probably shouldn’t. 

“I’ve never met any who is,” You try to recover, “But this doesn’t change anything between us. At least I hope it doesn’t.”

“I figured you’d say that. I don’t think I’m gonna live too long; at some point there won’t be magic left in me. But whatever I’ve got left, it’s yours if you want it.

“I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather spend the end of the world with.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple quick housekeeping things: I forgot to quote the Oath part the last chapter takes its title from, so I've added that. Also, my final estimate for the number of chapters this story will contain is in!  
> I like the very somber tone of this. I also like writing magical characters. I might have something for the future that's set in a similar universe with Charles/Reader, but we'll see! I'm almost sorry this chapter is so short, but I knew it would get way too long if I let it.   
> The next chapter bounces right back into the story.


	13. Tread With Care- Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At Long Last...  
> It finally rains in the town of Rhodes, just a few days late of the fire at the Gray Plantation. The clouds break, and so, dear reader, do you. Also, the long awaited explanation of the Chicago newspaper.
> 
> "Most especially must I tread with care in matters of life and death."- The Modern Hippocratic Oath

You had stayed up much too late last night. It had been a clear, breezy night and so you and the other ladies had spent the time by the scout fire, reading from the papers you bought in Saint Dennis. You’d already read them, on the train ride back, grabbing Arthur’s attention for every part that interested you. He was less fond of you at the end of the ride than the beginning, you suspect, though you’ve attempted to make it up to him since. All the same, it’s different with the others involved. Tilly has an amazing voice for drama, and Mary-Beth for romance. And you, they said, read the part of Dr Van Helsing wonderfully. It was fun, though; even Abigail had hung around after putting Jack to bed. You’d shared the story with them when you’d first met since you had a copy of the first print from when you came down from Chicago. You’re all terribly invested in the outcome now. Molly had stayed out too, taking her turns until Dutch told her to come inside or get left out the whole night.  
A  
ll the same it was too late when you all called it off and now you’re dead tired and almost falling from your saddle. Judging by her attitude, Barley isn’t a fan of being subjected to both your shifting weight on her back and the thick russet mud of the road. It had rained two days before, torrentially, and likely would again soon. The folks around town said it marked a hurricane in the gulf. They also said it was such a pity the fire that started on the Gray plantation was just a short bit prior. You’re headed there now, actually. It’s the first time since Valentine you’ll see firsthand the work Arthur does. It worries you, sits heavy in the pit of your stomach. Normally you make the Gray and Braithwaite families meet you in town to avoid accusations of being partial, but this is an emergency. Lenny came to you this morning about the Gray’s housekeeper. Judy is in her thirties and a first time mother, a little prone to panic. You don’t mind; you would feel much the same way in her position. It helps too that it was Lenny who let you know, informed by a member of the household staff.

You don’t recognize the men at the gate today so you just hold up your bag as you pass, hoping they’ll understand. They don’t stop you, but as you walk past one of them peels off and follows you. It sets a chill down your spine, like you’re being hunted. They’re probably just paranoid in the wake of the fire. And you’re paranoid too by now, surely, with so much time spent with outlaws. Perhaps he just needed an excuse to walk back to the house? It’s very muggy out; he may need a break. When you reach the brick walk around the house you dismount and leave your horse’s reins over the post. Hopefully the Grays have the courtesy to let Judy rest inside the kitchen at the very least instead of sending her off to one of the run-down shacks out back. It makes you furious every time you see them, and it’s certainly no place for a baby. It’s no place for human life in general, but you doubt the Grays pay wages enough for anyone to escape. You realize belatedly you should have brought some of the leftover hotcakes from breakfast.

The man from the gate calls out to you, “Come on inside, why dontcha, doctor?”

With what you hope is a genuine looking smile you turn to him, “Oh, is that where Judy is? I heard she was having some trouble with the little one.”

He just nods and pulls the door open. It’s quiet, you realize. There’s no workers in the charred fields. The sight of them doesn’t upset you like you worried it would: in the face of such a decadent house and the rundown shacks you suddenly can’t find it in yourself to care. But surely they’d be doing something to prepare the fields? To care for the cattle? There’s tension in the air like a stormcloud. Your gut tells you not to go, but you find yourself compelled to walk all the same. You’ll go where your patient is.

But there’s nobody waiting in the kitchen. Or rather, no women waiting. Sheriff Gray sits with his boots up on the table. The deputy and some of the rest of the family is crowded around. From what you can see the living room is in a similar state: men sitting on couches cleaning rifles and loading pistols. You shouldn’t be here. It feels cold, unnaturally cold. Your feet are too heavy to move even though you want to run. Your heart should be racing but it feels like it’s crawling inside. The back of your eyes start to burn but you will yourself not to cry.

The sheriff sits up and with a thunderclap of a thud sets a bottle on the table. At the sound you flinch, but the product is more confusing than anything else. It’s a bottle of Perkins’s black dye, the type used to colour fabric. Your puzzlement shows, no doubt, on your face.

“I figured, Mrs Callahan, that you might want to get a head start on gettin’ your mourning clothes ready.”

“I’m sorry?”

He sighs, like he’s the one inconvenienced, “Are you? You know, when you lot showed up the good folk of this town looked the other way about a lot of things. We had compassion for the likes of ya’ll,   
letting a bunch of drifters in, given’ ‘em jobs. We even looked the other way with you working, goin’ into parts of town ain’t no lady got business being in and visitn’ all kinds of folk. Why don’t we have a talk about Mr Callahan?”

Arthur had left early this morning, riding out with Charles to take advantage of some of the turkeys in the area. He’d left bed long before you, and you only woke up long enough to notice him leaving and kissing your head on the way. But Bill had been talking a lot about their next job, and you think that’s today.

“He’s out hunting at the moment, but he and Deputy Williamson are planning to come by to-”

“Now see, that right there is what I mean. Deputy of the law, that’s an honorable position. And what has your husband and his friends gone and done?” He jumps to his feet in a violent move and stalks   
towards you, “They burned our field. They shot up our saloon. They lied to our faces. Which makes me ask, Mrs Callahan, whether they did you too, or if you knew.”

“Sheriff, have you been drinking again?”

You know it’s stupid when you say it but once the pain starts blossoming from your cheek and you realize you’re staring at the floor the reality of it sets in. This isn’t about getting run off or even tossed in a cell overnight. They’ll hurt you. They could kill you. You don’t mean to but you can feel your eyes start to water. You’re scared.

“I don’t take no pleasure in hurtin’ womenfolk, but this is my family. What do you know? What’re they planning?”

You shake your head, mostly focused on not crying or talking.

“He never spoke to you about any of this, or you ain’t speaking to me? C’mon now, doctor, we don’t wanna hurt ya.”

“My husband’s a good man, all this, it’s just a coincidence.”

“What work did he do a’fore here?”

“He did ranching.” You’ve heard him talk about it with John and Charles. He’s even told you about it and said he liked it and might like to settle down that way one day.

But the Sheriff shakes his head, “Funny that that ain’t what Mr MacIntosh told us.”

“He’s done a lot of work a lot of plac-”

“That ain’t what we was told either.” He nods to the men in the room, “Take her out back.”

You know there’s no chance, that even if you got to Barley there’d be no time to unhitch her, but you still try to run. You don’t even reach the door before someone is on you, forcing your hands behind   
your back and holding them there as they drag you out. In the state you’re in you forget everything you’ve been taught about how to fight and just struggle. It amounts to nothing. The Grays drag you out to a post in the yard, force you to your knees, and tie your hands to the wood above you. One of them takes a knife and cuts through the back of your shirt and the laces of your corset. It’s amazing he doesn’t take your spine out the way you’re shaking. Silent tears sting paths down your face and blur your vision. You want so badly to be strong but you’re so afraid.

The first lash stings like hellfire. The four after don’t even seem to register in the face of it, blurring together. It’s worse when it stops, so much worse because suddenly there’s time to think about it, time for your mind to draw a picture in graphic detail of the split and bruising skin of your back. If it wasn’t for the fact that you would be sitting in whatever mess you made, you’d likely vomit. Sheriff Gray sighs above you.

“We don’t want this any more than you do. Just tell us what we need to know.”

You can’t actually fathom doing so. Your mind isn’t working well enough and left with just your emotion all you have is the ferocity of your loyalty and love. Without hesitation you know you’ll protect Arthur, protect the gang. There’s the girls who became your friends, little Jack, the motley assortment of morons you’ve taken care of who have half become your family; you’ll keep them safe no matter what.

And so it goes. Time passes in cycles not of minutes but of lashes then screaming, of pain then questions. Every breath feels like it pulls curtains of fire over your back. The brush of fabric is agony. You’re dizzy, you’re lightheaded, everything is spinning. The main thing on your mind is what a chore it will be to wash your skirt because you know blood is seeping into it. Even though he shouts it’s gotten very hard to understand the sheriff over the roaring in your ears.

At some point they give up. The next lash never falls There’s the crunch of boots and the stomp of horses. Somehow the pain is worse in the interim, finally able to sit and bloom. One last time a Gray comes and kneels in front of you.

“Why don’t you sit tight while we go kill that husband of yours? We’ll figure out what to do with you when we get back.”

They leave you hanging from that post in the hot sun pulling the water from the mud around you. There’s nothing you can do, no way you can pull against the post or move with your back flayed and certainly nobody is coming to help you until much later. All your tears are long gone. More time passes and with it comes the carried noise of gunshots from the direction of town. It’s too many too close to be anything but a gunfight and you know, you just know, that Arthur’s involved.

You don’t realize you’ve lapsed in awareness until you blink your eyes open and realize the sun has moved and stings when you blink. The air is still and heavy and quiet enough that even through your pain you feel relief. Whatever has happened, it’s over. Nobody’s come yet. A terrifying thought occurs to you: the gang could have already fled, leaving you lost and forgotten in the chaos. You may be thought dead, or worse, a traitor. But none of the Grays have come back either, so maybe you can live with that so long as everyone’s safe. You can manage if everyone made it out.

Just when you’ve started making peace with your end there’s more shots, this time closer. Maybe the gate? Your hope returns full force. Despite the pain it sends shooting down your spine you lift your head. No matter how you strain you can’t see much of anything: the position of your neck just provides enough for the dirt. There’s hoofbeats soon, then boots and you do, heaven help you, know those boots.

A swift cut lets the ropes fall and you sob at the relief it affords you. Before you can think or speak Arthur has you in his arms. You’re unsteady on your feet but he supports you as you tremble. It takes a moment through the fog but you realize he’s speaking. The words “Not again” are pressed into your hair over and over like a prayer. His meaning escapes you, but the feelings behind it don’t. Still, the pair of you can’t stay.

“We need to go, my love,” You whisper. The pain is too great to properly lift your hand to his face so you squeeze his hand instead, “We can’t stay here.”

“Yeah,” The agreement is pressed into your hair, “I checked the house and got your things.”

Despite the misery you feel, hearing that lets you relax a little: more than just its objective value or the importance of the work it lets you do, that equipment has been through so much with you.

“And Barley?”

“Sent her on back home, didn’t figure you’d be able to ride alone.”

You just nod and let him lead you to Penelope. Even his gentle touch as he helps you up on the horse make you flinch. He swings himself up ahead of you and you bury your face in his shirt. He smells of   
blood and gunpowder sweat and horse. It doesn’t repulse you quite like it used to, now it smells safe.

“What happened with the Grays?”

His muscles tighten under your hands where you’ve wrapped around him to hang on at the gallop he’s pushed his poor mount into.

“That moron Bill walked us right into a trap. Sean’s dead.”

Your heart sinks clean into your stomach. It doesn’t sound real at all. Sean of all of you was the most lively, the one with the most energy, the most spirit. Surely of you all he’s the least likely to die. Arthur   
must have been mistaken; it must have been one of the Grays who just looked similar. When you get back to camp and tell him what happened he’ll think it’s hilarious. He’ll laugh about it for days and give everyone grief. The whole place will act put out by him but-

Arthur squeezes your hand, “He was shot in the head, wasn’t anything anybody could do. They’ll bury him somewhere nice.”

The horrible truth is that you know he’d never mistake someone for Sean, that he’d never be so foolish. He’d never lie to you about this, it’s real, it’s happened. Nothing can change it. Your own situation seems silly by comparison, seems pointless. You’d thought the run from Valentine was as bad as this life got, but now the facts are stark before you: people die, people you love, when you live like this.

Much of the rest of the ride is a blur of dehydration, blood loss, and pain both emotional and physical. Eventually, though, Arthur pulls the reins up, slides to the ground, and helps you down. There’s a spring wherever you are with clean, clear water. That will be important, you know, in cleaning your wounds. You aren’t looking forward to it in the slightest; they always say doctors make the worst patients, and you struggle being on this side of things. But it must be done. You have to live, you feel it in a way you never have before: a desperate desire for life. Penelope stomps away to graze, likely freed of her bridle and saddle now. You plan something similar and begin to peel your dress off.

It’s slow, careful work, and eventually Arthur arrives to help you. His steadiness surprises you; you half expected him to be shy as he was in Saint Dennis. Though that was a lifetime ago now, you suppose.   
When your down to your drawers and nothing else you head for the water. The cold feels good in the unbearable heat of the afternoon. You brace yourself at knee depth, then walk on. Mud bottom drops away and you’re up to your shoulders. The pain in your jaw from clenching your teeth is very nearly comparable to that in your back. Again, Arthur is there.

“Can I do anything?”

You nod, “The lashes need to be clean. There can’t be any debris in them or it could get infected, but I can’t see or reach.”

He offers you his left hand and you take it, squeezing as he runs a rag he had the foresight to bring over each of the bloody gashes on your back. Of course you start to cry, and once you start it seems   
you can’t stop. You cry over the fear and the relief, you cry to mourn, you cry because you’re so far from home, you cry because you’re in pain. When it’s over Arthur turns you around in his arms and holds you there in the water. Never in your life have you felt so vulnerable. You wore less that night in the hotel, but you feel more naked now than you have in your life.

You need to get out of the spring, to put ointment on your back and bandage it, but right now you need him to hold you more.

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t faster, darlin’. I swore… I swore I’d be fast enough this time, and I wasn’t. I’m so sorry.”

“You didn’t know. I was told there was a woman giving birth, I should have known-”

“No, I should have been more careful, darlin’. I-” He pauses and looks around with a desperate kind of sadness that looks like all the crying in the world couldn’t wash it clean. Then he offers you his hand   
and pulls you back into the warm air, offering you a blanket to wrap up in.

“I told you I was engaged once, and she left me. I didn’t tell you there was somebody else too. Her name was Eliza and she was… She was real funny and had a lot of big dreams. We had a son, Issac.”

He isn’t looking at you while he talks as though pitching a tent provides him a sort of wall he’s safe behind. It’s probably a good thing because you have no idea what shows on your face. The idea of   
another lover doesn’t surprise you- he’s a very handsome man with a wonderful heart-, but a son… And the pain it brings him to talk about it suggests a certain end to the story.

“I visited them as often as I could but while I was gone one time somebody came by to rob the house. Whoever it was shot ‘em both. I heard a town a few miles west caught a robber and hung him after he snuck into some people’s houses, and I guess that’s him. But if I had been there, I’d have been able to protect them. I wasn’t there, though, just like I wasn’t there for you today.”

Saying your sorry feels woefully inadequate and today has proven that you can’t make any promises your story won’t end the same way. So instead of saying anything you crawl into the shelter he’s made and press yourself against his side. No words will do, so you don’t speak. Neither of you do. Nobody says anything about the kind of man Sean was, or the kind Issac might have been. There’s nothing about ‘if it were me’ or ‘I wish it never.’ The pair of you just sit close and watch the light fade in silence. Maybe, you think as you watch unshed tears in the eyes of the man you love, this is where healing happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! This was an incredibly difficult chapter to write. I'm expecting several of the next few to be till I hit my stride again. The first half of this work was much better planned than the latter half, but I'll do my best to keep things moving.
> 
> The Inter Ocean Chicago published Dracula as a serial before it was novelized in America- it was already a novel in Europe but hadn't hit U.S. presses. It ran from May to June 1899. The dye brand actually existed as well, and was one of the most popular. Poorer widows did indeed dye their clothes black rather than buy all new ones.
> 
> Sean's death steamrolled me. I left the gang for days and went on a spree in Saint Dennis to cope. And by spree I mean I upgraded my guns, got the shotgun coat I'd been eyeballing, and saw a show. I hoard money in video games like crazy.  
> Bathing together is my all time favourite romance troupe, it has it all: intimacy, sensuality, companionship, care. Oof I wish I could have spent more time on it here but unfortunately the chapter was already long and I had to split it in two, which I was not expecting.
> 
> Thank you all so much for your patience!

**Author's Note:**

> Now that you've read it I can post the stuff that's even more boring than the stuff at the top!  
> The title of this work comes from the last line of the modern Hippocratic Oath, and the chapter title from another work by Hippocrates which I will not even try to spell. The idea of doctor-patient privilege also comes in part from the Oath! One of the reasons I chose the Valentines doctor to pick on is that he outright tells the player about townsfolk.  
> John's stitches in Chapter 2 still look bad, and it does mention that Jack is getting over being sick. I like to think that in such a situation as this, Arthur would be looking out for him just to be on the safe side.
> 
> I'm trying to write this with a similar feel to the stranger missions in the game, like the character is an actual side character. You'll have to let me know how I do.


End file.
